Hunt the Hunter
by Aalon
Summary: Set at the end of Season 5, this story picks up four days after the end of The Wonder. If you have not read that story, please do so, first, as it sets this AU into place.
1. Chapter 1

**Hunt the Hunter: Chapter 1**

**A/N: **This story begins four days after the end of The Wonder storyline. Senator William Bracken has called his Bishop into service against Kate Beckett, who now stands alone in the nation's capital. Her only ally left is Special Agent Jordan Shaw, and she is some seven hundred miles away in Chicago. She has left Richard Castle behind in New York, their relationship in tatters. She has also left Detectives Esposito and Ryan under similar circumstances. And William Bracken is beginning the next step in his nefarious plans that ultimately will end with the White House, if he is successful. It will be up to a newly disarmed Kate Beckett to stop him.

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Tuesday, July 23th, in Washington, D.C., at 11:45 a.m.**_

It was a relatively quiet – and lonely weekend – for Katherine Houghton Beckett. She is only now coming to grips with the reality that her storybook romance with Richard Castle is actually over. She has beaten herself up time and again over the weekend for her current state of events, knowing that she has only herself to blame. Yes, she has been played, and played expertly. By Meredith, by Eric Vaughn. But in the end, it was her own doubts, her own foolishness that even allowed a crack in the armor for either to slither in and drop their poisonous venom.

In retrospect, she wonders exactly how in the world she didn't see this coming. How could she allow this to happen? Just over a year ago, she had flown into Richard Castle's arms, telling him he was all she wanted, and nothing else. Now, a year later, a job offer had suddenly vaulted itself over the writer, her lover, in importance. After hiding her knowledge of his love for her for a year, she has traversed down deception's dark road yet again, hiding her plans of a new job and a new city. And just as he had to learn of her first lie under awkward circumstances outside an interrogation room, he also had to learn of her hidden plans to move to Washington D.C., under similarly awkward circumstances with a fallen boarding pass on the ground.

Yeah, the tears spilt over the weekend were vast and voluminous. Yet here she sits, back at her new desk that seemed so damn important a couple of months ago – alone with her new reality, waiting for her next assignment. An assignment that – evidently – is getting ready to be handed down to her.

Her desk phone chatters and she picks it up on the first ring, seeing the internal call coming from her boss, Deputy Director Anthony Freedman.

"Agent Beckett," he addresses her formally. "Can you come to my office? I know it is lunch time, but this really cannot wait. You will understand why shortly."

"Certainly, sir," she responds, and he disconnects immediately. She stares at the handset for a second or two, frowns, and then stands, straightening her dark blue jacket and pants before heading out of her office. Seconds later, she is standing in front of the Deputy Director, who looks none too happy at the moment. Kate idly wonders what could be the cause of his clear discomfort.

"Kate, I will get right to it," the Deputy Director says quickly, and Kate is somewhat taken aback by his personal use of her name. It is rare that he calls her by name. His indifference to her since her arrival has taken on near legendary status.

"Please take a look at this," he says, as he pulls out a remote control unit and points it to the monitor on the wall to the side of his desk and clicks PLAY. Immediately the black screen goes blue for a few seconds.

"This video was sent to the agency this morning," he begins. "I can tell you that we traced the IP address to a small local coffee shop in Des Moines, Iowa," he continues. Kate starts mentally preparing herself for a jaunt to the Midwest, as the Deputy Director continues.

"Unfortunately, this little shop that has the wisdom to implement wi-fi technology for its customers didn't bother to add video surveillance to their budget," he mutters. "Idiots," he continues, under his breath. "Who has wi-fi but not one damn camera? They are just begging for trouble."

Suddenly, the blue screen disappears and Agent Kate Beckett's heart sinks and she releases a deep, visceral groan, as she sees the image of Scott Dunn appear on the screen.

"Dammit," Kate mutters under her breath as the talking head begins to deliver his message.

"Hello, Nikki," Dunn greets her with her pseudo alter-ego's name, knowing that he is pushing a button right from the get go.

"My, my, how I have missed you, Detective" he continues, then corrects himself, smiling maliciously. "Oh forgive me . . . Federal Agent now, isn't it, Nikki? Congratulations. I know that upward mobility often has its price. I trust that your promotion out of New York didn't carry with it undue costs, hmmm?"

Dunn chuckles, icicles really, that fall to the ground in the summer heat. Kate finds herself clinching her fists, trying to compose herself. The man really does know how to push her, already getting inside her carefully constructed barriers within half of minute – and on video tape, for crying out loud.

Freedman hits PAUSE, stopping the video momentarily. He can see the highly visible reaction of his agent, and right now he genuinely wants to know if she is up to the task. Senator Bracken is an experienced expert at this game, at the covert operation. The Senator knows that the best covert operation is one where the players are oblivious to their participation. They simply do what they do, every day, and their predictable actions are accounted for.

All to say, that is the position that Deputy Director Freedman find himself in this morning. Freedman is not 'in the know' regarding Scott Dunn's sudden appearance. Yeah, he has done his homework this morning, researching the serial killer after watching the video earlier. But he has no idea that Dunn is working for Senator Bracken. He has no idea that Dunn is one of Bracken's pieces that the Senator has brought into play previously with Kate Beckett. Yes, he knows the history Kate Beckett has with Scott Dunn. He just does not realize that this history was – in fact – orchestrated previously by the Senator. This fact is not known by Kate Beckett either.

And obviously, neither realizes that this is yet another plan on the part of the master politician.

"Are you all right, Kate?" he asks.

"Yes," she replies, regaining her composure. His words snap her out of the horrific trip down memory lane she has been freewheeling for the past few seconds. In her mind she sees her apartment blown up, Richard Castle giving her his coat to cover her nakedness as she climbs out of the protective cocoon of her bathtub. In her mind, she sees Scott Dunn standing over her with the drop on her, and Richard Castle getting off – what he admits was – a lucky shot to disarm the killer. It brings – yet again - front and center what – no, make that _who_ \- is missing in her life right now.

One Richard Castle.

"Yes, sir," she repeats. "I'm fine. Just a bit surprised. Dunn is supposed to be in jail. They should have thrown away the key. I'm just wondering how in the world he is out, free."

"Are you sure you are up to this, Agent Beckett?" he asks, now putting a more official tone into his voice. It isn't a derogatory remark; rather he is trying to snap his agent back into the moment.

"He should be in jail," she repeats, under her breath, and then, out loud, she tells her boss, "Hit PLAY, sir."

The Deputy Director nods his head and complies, and once again a voice Kate Beckett thought she would never hear again speaks to her. Immediately, he mocks her with his monologue.

"As you have probably realized by now, I don't spend much time in a jail cell. I find them tedious and boring."

His statement draws a raised eyebrow from Freedman, given that was exactly what he and Beckett were talking about just seconds ago.

"Bastard," Kate mutters, watching the video.

"And now that I am free again, it is time for you and I to play another game – a new game," Dunn tells her via videotape, with a warning.

"And Nikki," he continues, "this time it is just you and me. No extra-curricular help for you this time. Of course, your boss needs to know. I'm not completely unfair," he chuckles. "But no Jordan. Agent Shaw remains out of it, or I go killing with no clues. And no Castle. The writer stays out of it, or I go killing with no clues. And no other agents, police officers, coffee shop waiters," he chuckles again. "Any help I see for you and . . ."

He pauses for effect, smirking at the camera before he continues.

"You got it . . . I go killing with no clues. And trust me, Nikki, you _want_ these clues. And I want to _give_ you these clues. It's part of the _game_. The game is _no fun_ without these clues. But this has to be just you and me."

Kate idly wonders just how much Scott Dunn knows. Is he telling her that his rules dictate that she can't engage her friends again from the 12th, including Richard Castle, to help? Or is he telling her that he realizes she has burned her bridges and that – even if she wanted to – she is unable to pull them into the game this time.

He continues speaking, and she snaps herself back to the present, listening intently.

"And, Nikki, this is important," he tells her. "This particular game has a time limit. Two weeks. You have two weeks to stop me and catch me before I disappear again. And – you're a smart girl, so I know you already realize this – each time you fail to stop me, someone dies."

He pauses, allowing this statement to settle in. A worried frown creases the face of Deputy Director Anthony Freedman. Lives in the city dependent on Kate Beckett and her detective abilities? The very thought troubles him. He is no fan of Kate Beckett. Oh, he doesn't have anything against the ex-detective, per se. She just wouldn't have been his first – or second – choice. But this was not his decision.

"And this isn't New York City," Dunn continues, "with a bunch of stupid tourists and nobodies, Nikki. This is Washington, D.C.. The people here are . . . sooo much more interesting. A death in New York City is mourned by their family. There is a nice little funeral," he continues, his voice taking on a small, childlike mocking tone, allowing his head to flop from side to side.

"But here in our nation's capital," he continues, his head slightly dropping and his eyes darkening, "a death here, Nikki . . . well, that can mean something. Politicians. Judges. Military officers. Young sexually active and attractive interns," he says, and he actually giggles with this last inclusion.

"So, Nikki, you're going to have to use your brain this time," he smirks. "_Your_ brain. Not the writer's ingenuity. Not the profiler's instinct. Just you and your little, teeny, tiny, inferior brain," he mocks her, smiling all the while.

"I have six riddles for you," he says, holding up six fingers. "Six riddles, over the next fourteen days. You will get a new video for each . . . each . . . each game. Here's the first riddle, Nikki. Are you ready? Got your pen and paper?" he laughs, putting his hand over his mouth.

"First riddle, Agent Nikki Heat. Here it is. _We who are about to die at dusk enter willingly into the place of emancipation_."

With that, the video returns to the blue screen that marked the beginning of the message. Kate is already in thought, rushing through the initial riddle.

"He's testing me, sir," Kate tells him. "First, he will keep referring to me as Nikki," she continues.

"The character Richard Castle created for you," he acknowledges.

"Yes, sir," she tells him. "Initially, he seemed to have difficulty separating me from my fictional character. Perhaps I can use that against him again."

Freedman nods. "You said 'first'. What else?"

"The riddle, sir," Kate says calmly. "It's an easy one. A test to see how I will react."

"_That's_ an easy one?" he asks incredulously. "I'm still trying to wrap my head around that one."

"You have to know him, how he thinks," Kate gives him. "The place of emancipation refers to Abraham Lincoln. More specifically, Lincoln's place here in D.C."

"The Lincoln Memorial," Deputy Director Freedman nods, realizing the answer now.

"Yes, sir," Kate continues. "He said that the victim will enter willingly at dusk. So we are talking about someone who isn't going to be kidnapped, or coerced. They will just be there, willingly, of their own accord, at sunset."

"So," Freedman continues, "we have some indiscriminate tourist that will enter the Lincoln Memorial at sunset. Great work, Agent Beckett. We have plenty of time to pull together –"

"No, sir," she corrects him. "Not a tourist. He went to great lengths to tell us that he and I aren't in Manhattan anymore. This is Washington. There are very important people here."

"Then who?" Freedman wonders aloud.

"Remember what he said, sir," she tells him. "He used the phrase 'we who are about to die'. That phrase speaks of gladiators. Who are today's modern day version of gladiators?

"Soldiers" he exclaims quickly.

"Yes, sir," she agrees. "Dunn is going to kill a high-ranking soldier – a Joint Chiefs officer, some other high ranking officer. Tonight at sunset at the Lincoln Memorial."

Deputy Director Freedman, for the first time since her move to D.C., considers Kate Beckett with a new set of eyes, with a newfound respect. It is the first time he gets to see – first-hand – the ingenuity of his newest agent. More, the speed in which she has come to these conclusions simply startles him. For the first time, now, he sees the adversary that his colleague – his invisible boss – Senator Bracken has warned him about.

"Impressive," he mutters under his breath.

"What was that, sir?" Kate asks him, not being able to hear his words.

"Nothing, Agent Beckett," he says officiously, returning to form. "This is good work on your part. We will pull together a small team to go with you later today to the Memorial. I will also get my staff to check for any official visits, events, press conferences – anything that is going to be held at the Memorial that would invite any of this nation's top military officers to attend."

"Okay, very good, sir," Kate states, as she stands and takes her leave. She walks out the door and he waits a few more heartbeats for before commenting out loud.

"Yes, I need to keep a closer eye on you, Agent Beckett," he nods appreciatively. "I have clearly underestimated you."


	2. Chapter 2

**Hunt the Hunter: Chapter 2**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Tuesday, July 23th, in Washington, D.C., at 2:15 p.m.**_

Kate Beckett walks into her Washington, D.C. apartment, her belly satisfied from the sandwich and chips she quickly scarfed down for lunch. After leaving Deputy Director Freedman's office, she went straight to her office, and her computer. Yeah, the Deputy Director said he would turn the staff loose to research any military officers who might be visiting the Lincoln Memorial this evening under some official pretense. She has found, however, the federal resources here to be as unimpressive as they appeared when she was back in New York at the 12th.

No, she had decided that if she is the one on the line, if this little game is going to put her in the spotlight (or crosshairs), then she's going to do her own homework, thank you very much.

And despite Scott Dunn's warnings, there is no way she is not going to involve one Jordan Shaw. Kate is a realist, and she realizes that they may never have caught Dunn without the Federal profiler's assistance and leadership. Her door closed, she kicks her shoes off as she walks to her desk here in her apartment, and immediately punches in Jordan's contact information on her computer for a video chat. There is a way that Jordan can help her without being visible to Dunn.

She has already left a text message for her friend in Chicago, simply saying the words 'urgent' and '1415'. This was their pre-agreed upon code to let each other know that they needed a video conference at 2:15 this afternoon. Not receiving any reply was also their agreed upon code that the time was acceptable. So, she's done her research, grabbed lunch and now sits, waiting for her friend to answer on her remote computer. Seconds later, she sees the image of her friend appear.

"Must be important, Kate," Jordan says by way of greeting.

"It is," Kate tells her. "It's Dunn."

Jordan Shaw's silence tells Kate that the profiler is still processing the single name. The confused look on her face also tells Kate that her friend's mind is refusing to accept the data.

"Scott Dunn," Kate says again, this time using his full name. "He's back. In the flesh. Sent me a warning by video."

Now fully engaged, Jordan snaps out of her temporary funk. "Talk to me," she says simply.

"He's back, and playing a new game. Six riddles –"

"No, start at the beginning," Shaw tells her. "Tell me everything."

Kate stops, smiling, remembering that her friend – by her nature – needs data, every piece of data. Some she will process herself, some she will feed into some science fiction computer gear she probably has on her belt. Kate chuckles at the memory of "Jordan and her toys" as Richard Castle would have said. She forces herself to push away any sadness that creeps in as she thinks about the writer still back in New York.

"He sent a video to my boss, Deputy Director Anthony Freedman," Kate tells her.

"I remember him. Decent guy. Nothing stellar," Jordan muses, tossing a grape in her mouth. An hour behind, Kate realizes Jordan is probably on a late lunch.

"Freedman reviewed it, and then showed it to me," Kate tells her. He said he has a new game he wants to play with me. Six riddles in two weeks. He was very specific about that," Kate recalls. "And there are rules. I get no help. No you, no Castle, no Esposito or Ryan, no agents. I figured out the first riddle and Freedman wants to send a detail of agents with me."

"If Dunn said no agents, then why would he –"

"Because Freedman doesn't know who he is dealing with," Kate tells her, and Jordan nods in agreement.

"You didn't happen to get a copy of the video, did you?" Jordan asks her.

"Of course I did," Kate smiles. Check your personal email, coming from mine. Just sent it."

Kate waits a few minutes, as she watches her friend watch the video. She picks up on the slightly visible changes in Jordan's face at different spots. She can tell when the video is over, and she begins to speak, but Jordan suddenly interrupts her, as she tosses another couple of grapes in her mouth, chewing quickly.

"Wait a second, Kate," the profiler tells her. "You know how I feel about coincidences."

"I feel the same way," Kate agrees.

"There are no coincidences," Jordan speaks for both of them. "So why would Scott Dunn appear now? After all of these years?"

Kate begins to answer, but Jordan continues.

"Better question than that," Shaw asks her, "how did Scott Dunn get out of jail? Someone had to help him. He either had inside help, or outside help, or a combination of both."

"Why is that important, Jordan?" Kate asks. "We have a ticking clock here and –"

"It's important, Kate, because _there are no coincidences_," she repeats, this time more forcefully. "You're asking me to sit here and just accept . . . in good faith, that Scott Dunn just happens to appear now, when you are alone, without your friends, in a new city you don't know, coerced into coming to this new city you don't know by a man you know is your enemy . . ."

Jordan lets the thoughts sink in for her friend. She can see the wheels turning rapidly in Kate Beckett's head.

"Go with me on this, Kate," Jordan tells her. "This is what I do. This is how I process things. Let's consider – just consider the possibility – however incredible it may seem – that Scott Dunn is working with, or for Senator Bracken."

The immediate horror that grips Kate Beckett's face is almost funny, but knowing the history and knowing the man her friend is getting ready to face, it is very easy for Shaw to stifle the laugh that threatens to leak out.

"I . . . I don't even know how to respond, Jordan," Kate admits, as a little bit of fear grips her chest.

"Kate," Jordan begins, "This just like Bracken. He introduces Eric Vaughn to you in New York, and then pulls him out of the box again here."

Kate's thoughts stop in their tracks as she considers her friend's words. But Jordan isn't finished.

"And Kate," she continues, "it would fit Scott Dunn's profile. Aligning himself with a powerful person who turns him loose, lets him play his games, funds him, protects him, ensuring he doesn't stay in prison. Remember, William Bracken is a cruel and evil man. More than that, however, he is the master chess player, the master politician who learned strategy from the best minds in the military. This is either the biggest coincidence in your life that Scott Dunn picks now to show up – when you have cut your ties with virtually everyone – and then he reminds you that you can't seek help. It's like he knows you can't seek help, Kate, because you have burned your bridges with everyone in New York. That would be taunting you. Isn't Scott Dunn the type to taunt you? Wasn't that his M.O. a few years ago?"

Kate brushes her hands through her hair, staring at her friend in on the screen. This is too much. This is just too much. But Jordan – as always – is persuasive. And logical.

"Kate? If this is _not_ a coincidence, then this is _a plan_, this is a _well-thought out response_." You were predictable for Senator Bracken. Now, with your handling of Eric Vaughn last Friday, you aren't so predictable anymore."

Kate considers this for a moment, watching the woman in front of her toss another couple of grapes down.

"Next time, you're going to have to share those," Kate snickers, taking a bit of the edge off the conversation.

"What, are we dating now?" Jordan teases, giving Kate a slow blink of the eyes, and then laughing. Both women chuckle, as they both recognize the release that it gives them. Seconds later, Jordan takes a breath, and continues.

"You're not so predictable now, Kate, so Bracken digs back into your past, pulling out one of his chess pieces, a piece you thought long defeated, a piece you thought you would never have to play against again. Oh, Kate, this fits Bracken to a tee as well," Jordan muses, now tapping her hand on her desk.

Kate trusts her friend's instincts as well as her own. She's proven herself to Kate on the field of battle.

"But Jordan, that would mean that the first time we encountered Scott Dunn . . ."

"Yeah, Kate," Jordan agrees softly, now considering what her hypothesis really means. "It means that Dunn has always been in Bracken's pocket. And that would mean that – unless we believe in coincidences – and we don't – that would mean that the first time we met Dunn, he was doing so at Bracken's request."

"It would mean that either Bracken wanted him to kill me or test me," Kate thinks aloud.

"I kind of opt for kill, since he _did_ blow your apartment to kingdom come," Jordan smirks.

"Regardless, that means that _this_ time it is a test," Kate tells her. "He didn't threaten me. He threatened to kill as many important people as he can if I can't stop him. And he says I can't have any help."

"He wants this to be just between the two of you, obviously," Jordan agrees. "But I can still help."

"You're already helping, Jordan."

"Thanks Kate, but there is much more I can do. He's given you a riddle, and told you that there will be five more to come. He also gave you a two-week window. Why?"

"What?" Kate asks.

"Kate, for the moment, we are assuming that Dunn is working on behalf of Bracken, at the instructions of Bracken. If this is true, then why is there a two-week window? Why is there this timetable? Remember, no coincidences. If this is part of Bracken's plan, then everything – _especially a timetable_ – is important."

Kate thinks for a moment and the thought occurs to both women at the same time.

"He needs me out of the way" / "He wants you out of the way"

Both women smile, as Jordan recognizes a moment Kate used to share fairly often with a certain mystery novelist. She decides against bringing the name up at this moment. Instead, she follows their joint line of thinking.

"Exactly," Jordan muses. "That's probably why Eric was brought in. To keep you busy. To keep you out of the way.

"And now that we have shot that plan to hell, Bracken is executing his Plan B," Kate states, her brow creased with worry as she considers the implications of this line of thought.

"Yes," Jordan agrees. "And the idea that Scott Dunn is someone's Plan B is actually pretty frightening. Makes you wonder what Eric Vaughn is really capable of, what his plan for you actually was. Was he supposed to wine and dine you for a couple of weeks and then toss you aside? Or was there something more to it than that?"

Kate considers this for a moment then pushes it out of her mind. It is clearly something she doesn't want to think about.

"It doesn't matter," Kate states quickly. "He's out of the way now. It's Dunn and I. No, it's Dunn and _you_ and I.

"Exactly. We took him down once."

"We will do it again," Kate agrees. "But we can't follow his timetable."

"What do you mean? Oh, right . . ."

"Yeah. He may have two weeks, but _we_ don't," Kate continues. "For two reasons. One, we can't allow the damage, the loss of life that he has planned. We just can't allow that to occur. The longer his little game goes on, the more people are going to die."

"We know this from experience," Jordan concurs. "And the second reason is that if he gets his full two weeks, then that means that whatever Senator Bracken is doing, whatever plan he has hatched, that plan will succeed."

"So, somehow, we have to stop Dunn," Kate states, "and we have to stop him within the two week window . . ."

"While figuring out exactly what Bracken is doing at the same time," Jordan continues, finishing Kate's thought.

"And we have to do this without letting either man know we are on to their little game, and we have to do it without making you visible," Kate comments, a bit of stress now showing.

"Piece of cake, Federal Agent Beckett," Jordan smiles, again inserting a little levity for her friend. Yeah, she is here for her, but on the front lines of this one, Kate's going to be on her own.

"Look Kate," Jordan continues. "If that is the stipulation Dunn has laid out, then we know how he will respond when someone doesn't play by the rules. So we play by the rules . . . as far as he knows."

Kate nods her head, her resolve strengthening by the minute. Jordan adds more to it.

"You can do this, Kate," she tells her. "There are big moments we have in life, and this is one of yours. You were made for this moment, Kate. This moment is not bigger than you."

"Thanks, Jordan," Kate smiles, knowing what her friend is doing, but also believing her words at the same time.

"And Kate," Jordan finishes her thought. "_We_ now have the advantage. We know their game. And better, they don't know that we know. So you and I will keep figuring out the riddles, and you will go out and save whoever you're going to save. And while you do that, _I_ will focus on what our friend, William Bracken, is actually up to."

"How will you do that?" Kate asks.

"Oh, you leave that to me," Jordan smiles. "You have more than enough to focus on, girl."


	3. Chapter 3

**Hunt the Hunter: Chapter 3**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Tuesday, July 23th, in Washington, D.C., at 6:25 p.m.**_

The Lincoln Memorial, built to honor the 16th President of the United States, Abraham Lincoln, is fairly crowded as dusk approaches. Kate Beckett stands at the opening, staring across the reflecting pool to the Washington Monument across the way. A quick chill runs down her spine, and she idly wonders if she will soon be making a trip across the famous pool to the other resplendent monument because of serial killing machine.

"He said six riddles," she tells herself, "and has picked a national treasure as the locale for the first riddle."

Kate wears blue jeans, a soft, yellow halter top and sandals. A blonde wig of shoulder length hair and a pair of large-eyed Michael Kors sunglasses complete her disguise. On one hand, she knows this get-up will attract attention. On the other hand, she knows her enemy as well as he knows her. She knows he will be focused. He's going to be looking for her, and he's going to be focused on his kill for the evening.

She has never worn a disguise when dealing with Scott Dunn. She has always worn her normal business suit or other official attire. She has taken Special Agent Jordan Shaw's advice to heart.

"_Be unpredictable," _Shaw has told her._ "Do the unexpected. Bracken, Dunn, Vaughn – whoever else he has in his pocket – they all think they know you. They all think they have your tendencies down. Throw them a wrinkle."_

Kate is fairly confident Dunn won't see her. Oh, he will _see_ her all right, and may even gawk at her a bit. The irony causes her to smile. He's looking for Kate Beckett. He won't recognize her. That will allow her to play tourist, keeping her eyes open for Dunn, as well as keeping her eyes open for Hollister.

Determining that soldiers are today's modern-day gladiators was an easy jump for Agent Kate Beckett. Determining which soldier would be the target was a little more difficult. Surprisingly, Deputy Director Freedman's staff was able to come up with a list of potential targets after gaining access to a number of high-ranking officers' calendars for the evening. That led Kate to General M. Gregory Hollister.

Army General Hollister has a bit of history with Senator William Bracken, as Bracken's ideas on military budgets have constantly put the two men at odds with one another. Hollister's schedule puts him at the Lincoln Memorial tonight as part of his work with a local chapter of the Boy's Club. The General works with young boys in the Arlington area, and his calendar shows that today he is hosting some twenty to twenty-five boys at the Lincoln Memorial. The kids are here already, as Kate watched the charter bus arrive and the young boys step off. She's been looking for the General and finally notices a limousine pulling up on the street.

She stays conspicuously in the background, watching the General make his way to the youngsters, who obviously recognize the man and hustle towards him. He offers a number of high-fives to the boys, then puts his arms around a couple of them and literally herds them toward the memorial. Kate watches the General as he interacts with the young men, highly impressed with the military man who knows he is a target this evening, yet continues on as if nothing is wrong.

Deputy Director Freedman had tried – unsuccessfully – to get the General to change his plans this evening, alerting him to the danger. The General, nonplussed, had laughed the danger off, saying that the time he spends with the young boys is more important than most things he does these days at the Pentagon.

"Put a detail on me, and keep an eye on everything," General Hollister had told Freedman. When Freedman informed him that assigning a detail was a non-starter due to the 'rules of engagement in play', the General seemed completely unaffected.

"Then don't worry about it," Hollister told the Deputy Director. "I've watched my ass for thirty-five years now. I think I have another few in me."

Kate continues to stand back, watching for any sudden or unusual movements. And despite Dunn's warnings, there are plainclothes agents outside the Memorial, focused on sniper nest opportunities. They wear everything from shorts and sandals to jeans and crop tops. They will handle anything from a distance. They are depending upon Kate Beckett to handle the close-up fighting, if necessary. It's a plan that Freedman is not entirely comfortable with, still having limited confidence in his newest agent. But events this morning – her performance - have at least made him open to the idea.

An hour passes by, as the youngsters listen intently to the General's words about the iconic President honored by this memorial. He tells them of the Civil War, of the struggles of a growing nation, of the 620,000 soldiers who died during this war – almost half the number who have died in all American-involved wars. He gives them – and Kate – a visual using the acreage of the monuments to depict what that number of people looks like. He speaks to them of how the President took the unpopular stance to free the slaves, presenting a cultural and economic setback to the South. He tells them how a war was won but a country remained divided. He talks about how his stance ultimately cost Lincoln his life.

The words on the monument take on new meaning for the young boys once they know the back story.

The General finishes his tour with the boys without incident, says his goodbyes, and then heads back to the limousine. Kate watches, her mind racing now. Dunn is nothing if not precise. She briefly considers the possibility that she has made a mistake in figuring the riddle, but quickly chucks the thought aside.

"_No, he's here somewhere,"_ she tells herself, still glancing around furtively now, as the urgency of the moment begins to weigh on her.

The answer hits her quickly, and she chides herself for not seeing this sooner.

"_He's an army General. Dunn isn't going to risk anything up close," _she tells herself._ "And I have to trust Freedman's other agents to do their job outside. So that leaves a less personal attack."_

She remembers that this is Dunn she is dealing with, and subterfuge is his M.O. He strikes in unexpected ways after leaving clues. Thoughts of her apartment being blown apart, while she was totally unaware rush through her head as she begins to sprint towards the departing General. He is opening the door to the limo when she reaches him, pulling him away.

She glances inside and sees the bloodied head of his driver, shot dead with a single shot to the head. She runs the General from the limousine and seconds later, both Kate and Hollister are sent flying forward, away from the exploding vehicle.

"Stay down, General," she tells him, as she covers him, her gun now out and drawn. Agents from a distance rush toward the fiery blaze along with plainclothes officers.

"Thank you, miss," the General chuckles, "but I've been in worse."

"I'm sure you have, sir," Kate agrees, a small smile crossing her face. Her disguise now blown, she takes the blonde wig off, and slowly stands.

"Well, I guess you folks were right," he smiles as he reaches upward, using the hand Kate offers to help pull himself up. "And I'm not quite as spry as I used to be."

"Oh, you did well enough, sir," Kate chuckles with him, her head swiveling, searching for Dunn. She knows he is here. He is close by. He wouldn't miss this, an opportunity to view his handiwork.

"Where are you?" she says aloud, now ignoring the General who is being surrounded and whisked away by plainclothes agents and officers. She feels the buzz in her pocket, remembering that she has placed her phone on vibrate. She didn't want any unexpected phone calls to draw any attention to her. She pulls her phone out. She doesn't recognize the number. That, in itself, tells her that it is him.

"Hello, Scott," she says in greeting, risking being wrong, of course. But if she is right . . . well, it's just a chance to get a little inside his head as well. A second or two of silence follows before Dunn speaks. Kate smiles, knowing she has made her point. And won the first round.

"Very good, Nikki," Dunn tells her, recovering quickly. "I'm so pleased to see that you remember how to play the game."

"Killing people isn't a game, Dunn," Kate tells him. She glances around, but quickly decides that if Dunn was around to take a shot at her, he would have done so already. Besides, he doesn't want to kill her. Not yet at least. He's playing with her. In his mind, he is a cat and she is a mouse. And not even a real mouse. Just a toy. He has a game to finish, and he does enjoy his games.

"_Everything_ is a game, Nikki," he tells her, and she can hear the smirk in his voice, even though he does not laugh. No, she has not missed this creep one bit.

"What's next on the agenda, Dunn?" she asks as she watches the General safely driven away by her fellow agents.

"Patience, Nikki, patience," he chuckles, and she knows he is laughing at her. She ignores it.

"_I won this round, bastard," _she thinks to herself as she listens to him talk._ "I'll win the next one, too."_

"You will hear from me soon enough, trust me," he tells her. "We still have plenty of time, Nikki."

"I thought I told you last time," she tells him, putting a little more edge into her voice. "The name is Beckett."

She hangs up, and begins the trek toward the unmarked car of Deputy Director Freedman, who stands outside the driver's side waiting for his agent, unable to ignore the growing admiration he has for her.

_**Tuesday, July 23th, in New York City, at 11:35 p.m.**_

Richard Castle sits in his study, a half glass of bourbon dangling in his fingers. It's been five days – almost a week – since he closed out The Family Heist, as he is now calling the case with Roland and Serena Kaye. At the conclusion, he documented the most pertinent of points in his case notes that he may or may not use some day for future novel material. For now, he is focused on making a real go out of this private investigator business.

One case, with the lovely Serena, has got his juices flowing again. One case, that he was able to take down without the help of anyone from the 12th Precinct has given him a shot of confidence. But it's been almost a week now, and no new client has turned up. He has wondered whether he should advertise. Of course he should advertise! But the question is how.

He had been skulling that very idea this evening when the text from Jordan Shaw had come in. It has been awhile since he has heard from the Federal profiler, and hearing from her had caught him off-guard.

_JORDAN: Castle, this is Jordan Shaw. Can't talk right now, but make sure you watch the news tonight._

That had been the extent of the message. He had replied to her text, but she had not responded to his reply. That was three hours ago. Now, roughly fifteen minutes ago he had seen the report on the local New York station about a suspected terrorist attack at the Lincoln Memorial this evening. Turns out the attack was foiled by local Federal authorities. He had found himself idly wondering if Kate Beckett were one of those authorities. Why else would Jordan give him a heads up on this?

His phone rings, startling him out of his thoughts. He places the glass down, and picks up his phone. Yeah, it's her. He figured she would be calling to explain.

"Hi Jordan," he greets her. "So, want to clue me in as to what is going on?"

"Straight to business, eh?" she greets him in return, smiling. "No 'hi how are you' or anything. That's the way you're going to play it?"

"Hey, we private investigators have to keep our edge," he laughs with her.

"Private Investigator. Really," she gives him.

"New calling," he chuckles. "Or something like that."

"Yeah, I'm sure, Castle," she continues, then gets down to business. "So, I guess that's enough chit chat since you are all work and no fun."

"You wound me, Agent Shaw."

"That's Special Agent Shaw to you, Castle," she laughs again.

"Touche," he smiles. "It's been awhile, Jordan."

"That it has. So, here is what is happening," she begins, "and I need for you to make me a promise, Castle."

"What promise," he replies, wondering where this could be going.

"Just stay with me. Don't hang up. Don't make any assumptions. Just listen. Deal?"

He thinks about Agent Jordan Shaw for a few seconds. Smart, good sense of humor, great toys, drop-dead gorgeous.

"Just tell me what's on your mind, Jordan," he says, finally.

"I assume you heard about the terrorist attack at the Lincoln Memorial."

"I did. Watched it a few minutes ago. I assume that's what you wanted me to see," he tells her.

"Correct," she replies. "So, in the immortal words of Paul Harvey, here's the rest of the story. It's not a terrorist attack. That's the official word being given to the press."

"Okay, that's a new one," Castle has to agree. "Normally the authorities are running around trying to convince the public that something is _not_ a terrorist attack."

"True," she tells him, before she drops the first bomb. "That was – at least this time – preferable than to tell people the truth."

"And what is the truth?" he asks her.

"Scott Dunn has returned," she tells him. The silence from the other end tells her that the wheels are turning – slowly and painfully most likely – in Richard Castle's mind right now. Before he can bolt or respond, she knows she needs to continue.

"He contacted the Feds this morning," she continues. "Told them of his plans to make six attacks in the Washington D.C. area. He is giving them six riddles to figure out. They figure out the riddle, they have an opportunity to stop him. They don't figure out the riddle, someone dies. The results of the first riddle, you just saw on television."

A few seconds pass before Castle responds. Jordan can hear the stress in his voice.

"Sounds like Dunn all right," he says softly. "They are sure it is him?"

"Absolutely," she replies. "He sent a videotape."

"You're sure of this?"

"I saw the videotape, Castle," she tells him. "It's him all right."

"How did you get to see it?" he asks her.

There. That's what she's been waiting for. She's not going to lie to him, and when Kate asks why she told him it was her, that's what she's going to tell Kate. Because she knows Kate is going to be pissed. Actually, she's going to be pissed, and she's going to be relieved as well. Jordan knows how Kate feels about Castle, how she regrets what she allowed to happen – what she caused to happen. She knows that she has told Kate that if she and Castle will ever have a chance to get back together, she has to put him first. And in the greatest of ironies, that is what Kate is doing right now by not reaching out to Castle for help. Kate reaching out to Castle will simply put him in danger. Most likely, the two would fall into their old, long-rehearsed dance, no matter how angry he is with her. She knows this much about Castle.

But for Jordan to reach out to him, for Jordan to lay down parameters for what he can do to help – and why it is important to him to help – that's a different story altogether.

"Kate shared it with me," she tells him.

She hears the audible sigh he releases on the other end. _"Yeah, I'm sorry to ruin your night, my friend,"_ she thinks to herself.

"Now, remember our deal. You don't speak. You listen," she tells him, and the subsequent silence tells her he is playing along.

"Good – thank you, Castle," she says, genuinely meaning it. "Now, here's the deal. Dunn reached out to Kate's boss. He's playing a game with Kate. Again. Still calling her Nikki and all that shit. But he's very specific this time. No help. No help from me, no help from you, no help from anyone. He wants another one-on-one with Kate. And as you can see, she won the first round."

Castle considers this for a moment, and then nods his head. The attempt on the life of a U.S. Army general was foiled. So that was Kate, he realizes. Dead driver, car exploded – yeah, that sounds like Dunn. Castle cannot help but remember rushing into Kate Beckett's smoking apartment, all but sure the detective was dead. He remembers the relief upon finding her alive, hearing her voice. He places two fingers at the bridge of his nose, fighting against the memories.

"Jordan," he begins, but is interrupted by the Federal agent.

"Rick," she stops him, using his first name to grab his attention. "You're talking. Listen for now. You'll get your chance."

Another few seconds pass before she continues, knowing he is listening. Reluctantly, probably angry as hell, but at least he is listening.

"If he finds out she contacts you, people die. If he finds out she contacts me, people die. If she pulls in other agents, people die. Now, she and I have a little clandestine thing going . . . okay, that didn't come out quite right," she backtracks.

"Maybe not, but the visual just made my night a lot better," he smirks. It causes her to smile.

"_There he is," _she thinks to herself._ "The funny, witty, loyal man I met a few years ago."_

"In your dreams, Castle," she laughs.

"Damn right," he chuckles. "They will be tonight."

"You're horrible, you know that," she laughs again.

"One of my better qualities. Or so I've been told."

The laughter, the banter is good. She really likes this man, and just the past twenty seconds have reminded her why Kate Beckett walks around like a lost puppy. She misses her man. But right now, getting him back can't be her priority. Keeping him safe can be.

"So," she tells him, getting back on topic. "Here is why I called you. Give me another two minutes – then do what you will."

He pauses for a second or two, now clearly wondering where this is going.

"Shoot," he tells her.

"Everything about Kate's federal job was a set-up," Jordan begins. "Senator William Bracken arranged it all."

She feels – and hears – the noticeable hush on the other end, and for a brief instant wonders if Castle is even breathing. Yeah, this wasn't what he expected to hear, she knows.

"Many of the things that have happened in the past few months were all orchestrated by Bracken," she continues. "The entire Eric Vaughn case? Bracken."

"Excuse me?" Castle interrupts, but is cut short again.

"Stop talking. Listen," Jordan tells him, forcefully. "The job offer to Kate to move to D.C.? Bracken. He wanted her away from New York. He wanted her away from you. From the 12th."

"Why?" Castle asks, again unable to keep quiet. This time, however, Jordan allows the interruption.

"That, Richard Castle, is the twenty million dollar question," Jordan tells him. "You can ask why would Bracken want Kate in D.C. The answer may be as simple as he just wanted her _out of New York_. He wanted her away from you. Away from her friends at the 12th. So – knowing our Kate, and which buttons to push – he managed to get her to move to D.C., and do so in a way that burned her bridges with you, with Detective Esposito, with Detective Ryan. She's all alone, without the team that she built, without the man that she loves, without –"

"Jordan," Castle interrupts her – again – this time uncomfortable with Jordan's declaration of Kate's love for him.

"Dammit, Castle, it's a simple request – shut the hell up until I can finish – okay?"

Another few seconds of silence pass, save the breathing she hears on the other end. He's angry, she knows. Thankfully, he is still with her.

"Sorry," he says softly.

Now knowing her time is limited, Jordan drops the next bomb.

"So, here's the rub, Rick. She's alone in D.C. – all her fault, and she knows it, and regrets it, and can't do anything about it. Not yet. Because Dunn is now in the picture. And Dunn is working for Bracken. Has been for years."

Jordan Shaw allows this to sink in. The continued silence tells her he is considering the implications of her latest revelation.

"She's wanted to reach out to you, but you know Kate," she continues. "She's clumsy at this sort of thing – at apologizing, at admitting she's human, that sort of thing. In fact, she is positively dreadful at it."

"You know her well," she hears him mutter under his breath. She will give him a pass this time. She knows he is struggling. But he is still here. He hasn't hung up on her. At least not yet. She continues, ignoring his remark.

"So, here are the challenges. She' can't know that I called you. If she finds out, she'll kill me. If Dunn finds out, he'll kill you. So, let's all stay alive and keep this conversation to ourselves. That's number one."

She pauses, running her hand through her hair and taking a deep breath. Number two is critical – and harder.

"Number two," she continues, "I need your help. Me, Castle - not Kate. I'm asking you as a friend to help me."

"How?" he asks. "How can I help you when I'm not supposed to know anything? And I don't even know what you want."

"That's because you're talking again, Rick," she laughs, and after a second, he begins to laugh with her. The laughter is good, it is a good release for him.

"You told me you are a private investigator now," she continues. "I have to tell you, Castle, that is pure providence, my friend. This couldn't have worked out better. In your new role, you can do a little digging, you can become my eyes and ears in New York, and you can do it all under the guise of your new role, your new business."

"Why is this important?" he asks her. "What does this have to do with Dunn?"

"Nothing and everything," she replies. "Here is my theory, Rick. Senator Bracken wanted Kate out of New York because he is planning something there. He's from New York, and he's got his fingers into a lot of nefarious things, to say the least. And Scott Dunn has told the Feds that there is a timeframe he is working with. Two weeks. He's giving them riddles for two weeks."

"To keep them busy," Castle says aloud, now finally warming up to the challenge, now finally starting to search for the linkages.

"Exactly," she replies. "Now, stay with me, Castle. This is important. If Bracken hadn't been able to get to Kate, to get her to move away – she would still be there, Castle. Be there with you. Working with you. The two of you doing what you do so well. Solving crimes. Discovering things. She would still be at the 12th, with Esposito and Ryan, and all of the resources of the NYPD. Bracken is never far from her mind, or yours. Don't deny it, I already know this," she tells him.

"Kate in New York, working with you, working with Esposito and Ryan – that's been a big pain in the ass for Senator Bracken. For the last couple of years, every time he has something going on, somehow you and Kate and the boys would come across it, stumble across it – it doesn't matter – you were always getting in the way. But now, you aren't. Now, without me giving you this phone call, you and the NYPD would have no clue, no reason to suspect anything is happening that could be tied back to Bracken."

"So, he uses Dunn to keep Kate busy, in case Kate could have discovered anything Bracken is doing," Castle thinks out loud.

"And because no one in New York is talking to or even_ thinking_ about Kate Beckett or her war with William Bracken, he is now free to act in New York," Jordan finishes, taking a deep breath.

"So – something is going on in New York now, Rick. Some normal crime that the NYPD faces everyday – embezzlement, money laundering, some heist of drugs from a cartel – I don't know what it is, but somehow it is going to tie back to William Bracken. But the NYPD won't make the connection, won't see the link."

"But Kate would have," Castle nods, comprehension fully sinking in.

"Kate would have, and you would have," she tells him. "That's why I need you, Castle. Kate is doing her part in D.C. She's playing along with Scott Dunn, trying to save lives, trying to minimize any damage he can do. And she's on the inside at the Feds, so she is keeping tabs on Bracken as best she can. But for what is going on in New York, finding out what is going on there –"

"You need me," he tells her, his voice soft, but determined.

"I need you," she agrees. "And no one can know. Not anyone at the 12th, because I am positive there is a mole there, he's got his tentacles there."

Castle cannot dispute the wisdom of her words. The last time they found out that Bracken had a mole of sorts in the NYPD, it turned out to be Captain Roy Montgomery, who knew of all of Bracken's affairs, but kept silent until just over two years ago, when he could stay silent no longer. So yeah, engaging Esposito and Ryan is a non-starter. Anyone could be watching them, and that would be that.

"And Kate can't know either, Castle," she tells him. "If Kate knows you're involved, trust me, she will drop everything and rush blindly back to New York to try to protect you."

"No, she wouldn't," he argues.

"Oh trust me, Richard Castle," she argues. "If there is one thing I am right about, it is that. Kate would be on the next flight if she thought you were in trouble. Besides," she continues, wondering just how much to share with him. She finally decides that she won't make the same mistake that her friend has made when it comes to transparency with this man.

"Besides, Kate is in a place right now, mentally and emotionally, where she needs to get herself back together. By herself. On her own. She's slowly really starting to move forward, to kind of grow up, Castle. To be honest, I thought she had done that over the past year with you. She didn't. But now, that's where she is. She's got to walk this out on her own. So she can't know what you are doing. Not until this is all over and done with, and not until she gets herself together."

A number of seconds pass, turning into almost half a minute of silence. Jordan now wonders if her plea, her request has fallen on deaf ears. She knows he is mulling it over, but she also knows – from Kate – how hurt he has been.

"You know, you really know how to ruin a guy's night," he tells her finally.

"I thought that image of Kate and I together _made_ your night, not ruined it" she argues with fake disappointment. "Make up your mind, Castle – which is it?" she laughs, hoping to bring him back. The chuckle he shares with her tells her he is still there with her.

"Okay, Special Agent Shaw of the FBI," he tells her.

"What?" she asks.

"I'm in."


	4. Chapter 4

**Hunt the Hunter: Chapter 4**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Thursday, July 25th, in Washington, D.C., at 10:35 a.m.**_

It's unusually warm today, even for a summer day here in the nation's capital. Kate Beckett sits at the coffee and sandwich shop around the corner from her office building. Normally she would sit outside, enjoying the sun and slight breeze, but today she is inside in the air conditioning. It's still a little early for the lunch crowd, but the temperature in her office building is even more stifling than it is outside. The air conditioning went out some time last night, according to the custodians, and they have been unsuccessful getting it turned back on. She – and everyone else – knew it would get hot inside. They all just figured they would at least make it through noon. She missed it by almost two hours.

Her dark blue suit already sticks to her in places that . . . well, it's just darn uncomfortable.

It's been two days since Kate and her fellow agents stopped Scott Dunn at the Lincoln Memorial. Now, for the past two days, they have sat, waiting for the next clue, the next riddle. Kate has repeatedly voiced her displeasure with this 'sit and wait' strategy.

"This is no strategy," she has loudly but politely complained to Deputy Director Anthony Freedman. "We should be looking for him. He is close by. He always is."

"Agent Beckett," he had begun just earlier this morning – again – "while I and everyone here appreciate your efforts and the results you delivered earlier this week, might I remind you that this agency has procedures that have been put in place for events such as this, and –"

"A procedure that has us imitating sitting ducks is no procedure, sir," Kate had argued, and she knew as the words left her mouth that she had overstepped with her new boss.

"I suggest you leave this office, Agent Beckett, while my patience remains," he had told her.

So here she sits, wondering if it was her words, or just the hot temperature – or both – that caused the breach between she and Freedman. Yesterday he had treated her . . . differently. Up until then, he had acted as if she was nothing more than an unwanted ally, and she understands now how close to the truth this actually is. But yesterday he seemed different. He seemed . . . the word escapes her, but she knows that somehow she has taken a step toward proving herself to him. Not that she desires his admiration, but she does need some type of support if she is going to pull this off.

She takes a deep breath, drinking down the iced lemonade in large gulps, leaving only the ice cubes remaining in the glass. She gathers her purse and is ready to leave when a hand on her shoulder stops her.

Deputy Director Freedman walks around to the chair in front of her, pulling it out.

"May I?" he asks, and doesn't wait for a response, as he sits down across from her.

"I guess so," she responds, ready to say more, but catches herself, realizing she has probably already said too much this morning. "How'd you know where to find me?"

"Well, this _has_ kind of become 'your place'," he chuckles. "Anyway, I came for two reasons, Agent Beckett," he says formally. "First of all, to apologize. I should not have tossed you out of my office like that. Very unprofessional on my part."

His apology is totally unexpected. She grudgingly has to admire a man who so quickly will try to make amends for a mistake. And at the same time, she wonders what his agenda is.

"It's the heat, sir," she gives him, "the heat and a new agent who is still finding her way. I apologize also." She needs a good working relationship with this man. He has offered an olive branch. She accepts it, and provides one of her own in return.

"Accepted," he smiles – and if she did not know the allegiances he has, she would believe it to be genuine.

"You said two reasons," Kate reminds him.

"True," he agrees. "The second reason is to say that you might be right. We only have twelve days left, five more riddles to go, and still no word from this guy. Finding him should be our top priority right now, until he gives us our next clue. Now, you know this guy better than any of us. Where do you propose we begin?"

"Well," she comments, glad to be doing something besides sitting back and twiddling her thumbs. "As I said earlier, I think he's close by. Somewhere here in the D.C. metro area, I promise you. He likes to be close to his kills. And when I said close, I mean _'right here'_ kind of close. Even though he tried to blow up the general, remember, _he shot the general's driver_."

"True, and bullet type indicated a close kill," he agrees, nodding his head. "So it wasn't a long-range sniper shot. He was there."

"That's his M.O." Kate tells him. "He likes being in close contact. He likes doing things personally. So he's here. You have the last known photographs of him, although I will be the first to admit that he's a bit of a chameleon. He could look very different right now."

"So, once again - where do we start," Freedman asks again.

"We begin at the Lincoln Memorial."

"We've already gone through surveillance videos in the area," he reminds her, shaking his head. "There was nothing pointed at the General's car. Why start there?"

"We start with the _boys_, sir," she smiles. "Most of those boys had cell phones, and every one of them was enthralled with General Hollister. They hung on his every word and they were taking pictures and shooting videos of everything the General said and did. We start with them, to see if we can see something in the background from one of their videos or images."

Once again, the Deputy Director finds himself staring with surprised admiration at Kate Beckett. He knows that the Senator has an adversarial relationship with the woman, but he also admits to being in her debt for now.

Freedman is no fool. He knows the Senator's ways can be somewhat . . . unsavory. He still does not know the extent of the Senator's ruthlessness or disregard for law or morality. The Senator plays the covert game, using people without ever fully committing them to his plans. There are exceptions. Freedman is not one of them.

"I'll get Samuels and Evans on it," he tells her. "They can start contacting the boys through the center. We will get their phones and start reviewing what is there. Good idea, Agent Beckett."

He stands, ready to take his leave, when Kate decides to play the political game a bit further.

"Thank you, sir," she tells him, "for coming here, and . . . well, thank you, sir."

"My pleasure Agent Beckett," he replies, smiling. As he walks away, he – for the second time in two days – begins to question this whole Kate Beckett game that he is in the midst of. She is a much better agent, a much better detective than he realized.

"_I'm going to do a little homework on you, Agent Beckett," _he thinks to himself, now committed to finding out a little more background on the agent, something he would have done earlier had he truly vetted her during the interview process. But as it was, he was simply following instructions. Now? He truly is interested in finding out more about her.

_**Thursday, July 25th, in New York City at Castle's P.I. Business Office, at 11:15 a.m.**_

Richard Castle sits in his still relatively new office, his feet on top of his desk. He looks relaxed and without a care in the world. In reality, he is deep in thought, as he stares out of his window. In one hand is a writing tablet with scribbles and notes. In the other hand, a mechanical pencil that already has received heavy usage this morning.

Castle has been channeling his writer/novelist persona this morning, as if drawing an outline for a new book. He's spent the past hour and a half storyboarding, and this has involved writing, erasing, drawing, crossing out.

The great irony last night was that he had just been concerned that he didn't have any new case to work on. Well, problem solved.

"_Be careful what you wish for,"_ he told himself last night after hanging up with Jordan.

So far this morning, he has hashed and rehashed his conversation with Jordan Shaw from last night. One thing in particular that the Chicago Fed said has stayed with him.

"_Something is going on in New York now, Rick. Some normal crime that the NYPD faces every day. Embezzlement. Money laundering. Some heist of drugs from a cartel. I don't know what it is, but somehow it's going to tie back to William Bracken. But the NYPD won't make the connection, won't see the link."_

She had gone on to say that Kate Beckett would have seen the link. More, however, she told him that _he _would have seen the link, too. _That's_ why she called him. Because only two people on the planet would come across this situation, this crime – whatever it turns out to be – and link it back to the Senator. Only two people, because of their history with him. Because of their obsession with him. Because they see him in their sleep, they deceive people – including each other – as they try to figure him out. They take unnecessary risks, ignoring policy, ignoring friendships, having clandestine meetings in public garages.

Yeah, Jordan told Kate she was taking care of finding out what Senator William Bracken is up to. What she didn't tell Kate was _how_ she would go about doing this. That she would be using Richard Castle. For Jordan, it was a simple decision.

One, she can't use any of the Feds in New York. She can't trust any of them with this.

Two, she can't use anyone from the NYPD. She can't trust anyone there either.

Three, the one person she can trust in New York also has enough inside experience – although limited – with the Senator and his ways to maybe – just maybe – see clues that others would miss. That is Richard Castle.

Castle knows all of this, and so – with renewed confidence – he had attacked the story this morning, tablet in hand. How would he write this? How would he storyboard something like this?

Rather than start with the crime – money laundering, drugs, embezzlements, murder – instead of starting with the 'how', Castle has started with the 'why'.

The first thing he had written was "Get Elected President." That was at the top of the page, the note next to the Roman numeral one in the outline. The way he would write this, the reason for the story would be to get elected. That's the 'why'. That's what Bracken wants. That's what he is positioning himself for. The way Castle would write this, every decision Bracken makes – even ones that seem petty and personal – have that singular goal in mind. Win the election.

From there, a natural progression of thought has followed all morning, beginning with "The Campaign." If you want to be elected to any office, you need to run a campaign. You have a message, you have supporters, you have an infrastructure – all of those things are important. But above all else, you need money. You need funding.

So, with all of the zigs and zags he has taken this morning with possible plot lines, actions and sub-actions, it keeps coming back to that one item.

Funding.

That's why the Senator would resort to criminal activities, why he would _risk_ the presidency. Because he is an independent, and he needs money!

He has no political party behind him. There will be no primaries to count on building momentum, or a war chest. There will be no party convention to count on to build momentum, or, yeah, that war chest. The two established parties will have a distinct advantage over him, monetarily. Unless he changes the ground rules.

Bracken is a military man – with a brilliant business mind. Castle finds himself recalling highly informative conversations with businesspeople and military veterans alike during his late night poker games. Their lessons have stayed with him. In war, as in business, there are four strategies you can choose from.

First, there is a direct strategy, which simply means that based upon current events, based upon the landscape, the competition, the market, the battle field, whatever – based upon the status quo, you have the advantage. And not just any advantage – you have a clear advantage. You are operating from a position of massive strength. If the battle were fought today, you would win. If the decision were made today, you would win. In this case, the best thing to do is hit hard, and hit now.

Second, there is an indirect strategy, which simply means that based upon the same current events, if you attack now, if the decision were made now – you would lose. Because of this, you change the current events! You change the ground rules. You cause the decision to be made on different criteria. You change the location of the battle. As Castle was writing his notes in the margin, he had written "Operation Desert Storm". This decisive 1991 war campaign was brilliantly waged as an indirect strategy. Private and public opinion was certain that Iraq's fearsome, elite Republican Guard would surely test the mettle of the U.S.-led coalition of ground troops. So, rather than attack with ground troops, the U.S. began an astonishing aerial bombardment, with tomahawk missiles fired from off-shore Navy ships and smart bombs from the Air Force. For five weeks, the aerial assault continued, hammering away at the ground troops and infrastructure of the enemy, until they were suitably softened for a ground campaign. They changed the ground rules.

Third, there is a divisional strategy. Here, as with an indirect strategy, you realize that you are not in a position of strength. If the battle is fought today, you lose. If the business decision is made today, you lose. But you also realize that if you can carve out a piece of the action, you can win _that piece_. Castle had included the words "Typical Campaign Strategy" in the margin, recognizing that this is something that you regularly see in presidential political campaigns. One candidate realizes that he or she is going to lose, but they also realize that they can carve out the states in the south, or in the Midwest. They can carve out the Latino vote, or the black vote. They may have a platform that resonates with women in the northeast, or with young people on the west coast. Regardless, they stay in the campaign, spending money, knowing they can't win – but also knowing that because they control a voting block, they can still influence the upcoming party platform, the platform message.

Finally, the fourth strategy is the Containment Strategy. If the battle is fought now, you lose. If the business decision is made now, you lose. You can't change the ground rules, and you can't even carve out a small victory. So you delay. Every action, every tactic is designed to delay the battle, delay the decision until you can strengthen your forces, your platform, your product, your proposal.

Castle had smiled as he jotted these notes down, and it now has become apparent which strategy he believes the Senator is putting into play.

"_He's underfunded, compared to the Democrats and Republicans,"_ he tells himself. _"They will beat him simply because they can inundate the airwaves with their message far more than he can. Yeah, he can use social tools, but the older, established voters don't get their soundbites from Facebook. They get them from CNN, or Fox, or MSNBC, or Yahoo."_

Castle realizes that you can't divide and conquer, you can't run a divisional campaign and _win_ an election. He also realizes that – barring something horrendous – you can't delay an election either. So that leaves the indirect strategy.

"He's going to change the ground rules for fund raising!" he says out loud.

Smiling, he puts down his tablet and picks up his small Macbook, and opens a search for "Super PAC". Created back in 2010 as a result of the federal court case known as _SpeechNow org vs. Federal Election Commision_, it stands for Super Political Action Committee. He remembers the case, which has caused highly emotion charged debates on both sides of the equation. He reads further:

'_Technically known as independent expenditure-only committees, Super PACs may raise unlimited sums of money from corporations, unions, associations and individuals, and then spend unlimited sums to overtly advocate for or against political candidates.'_

Castle nods his head, still smiling. He notes that, unlike traditional political action committees, which can donate directly to a candidate, Super PACs cannot donate directly to an individual candidate. But they can donate _for or against_ a candidate.

"The perfect indirect strategy," Castle says out loud. He notes that even though Super PACs must document and identify their sources . . . well, there are always loopholes. He realizes that since Bracken cannot 'raise' the funds necessary to compete, the ruthless Senator will likely opt for more underhanded, illegal ways of funneling money into his campaign. And the easiest way to do that?

A Super PAC.

Castle puts the MacBook down on his desk, and rubs his eyes. It's been a long morning, deep in thought, but at least now he has his story. At least now he has his plot. Now it's just the chapters, the actions. Now he can think about embezzlement, or money laundering, or hell, even art heists. He thinks back to Serena Kaye and the totally unbelievable case regarding an art heist he has recently finished.

Sitting back in his chair, needing a break, he pulls his phone out and begins to type a text, but stops to look at his watch.

"_Still awake, I'm sure,"_ he tells himself, as he completes the text.

_CASTLE: How are things going in Barcelona?_

He stands, walking to the refrigerator in the office and retrieves a bottle of water. Opening it, he takes a long swallow when he hears his phone ping.

_SERENA: Good. Kevin is enjoying it. Getting used to his new family._

Castle nods appreciatively. He knows that Serena had struggled with whether to tell Kevin the truth, or to allow him to continue believing Ruth Kaye to be his mother. In the end, she had decided any reason to continue withholding the truth from him would come back to bite her.

"You keep saying 'withholding the truth, Serena," he had told her. "Why not say what it really is. A lie."

Perhaps it was his words, perhaps not. Regardless, Serena opted to tell her son the truth, and now mother, brother and son are in Spain for a trip abroad. A strange family dynamic for certain, as the boy will always look at Roland as his father, but now looks at his former aunt as his mother. Not the most ideal solution, but it wasn't the most ideal situation either.

He types out a quick text.

_CASTLE: Nice. Enjoy. _

His smile fades as he scrolls to find Jordan Shaw's contact information. Back to business. Finding it, he types out a quick text to the Federal profiler.

_CASTLE: Got something. Let's talk._

_**Thursday, July 25th, in Washington, D.C., at 3:18 p.m.**_

Federal Agents Ben Samuels and Candace Evans sit in chairs across from one another in the small, corner conference room, lost in the endless phone calls they have been making since lunchtime. The heat in the building has hit oppressive levels, and people are on edge.

They have been able to get in contact with most of the families of most of General Hollister's boys from the Boy's Club, but a couple of youngsters have proven to be a bit more elusive. They understand how some have a reluctance to answer phone calls from unrecognized numbers, but the voice messages they have left have been very plain and to the point. They need their son's phones to see if there is anything that can be gleaned from their contents.

Without warning, Deputy Director Anthony Freedman pokes his head through the door into the conference room.

"All hands on deck," he tells them, sweat dropping from his chin. "New riddle."

The two agents – thankful for a merciful reprieve – gather their belongings and make the short trek to down the hall to the larger conference room where a few other agents are already waiting, including Kate Beckett. A few seconds later, the Deputy Director enters, closing the door behind him.

"All of you are aware of 'Operation Capital Shield'," he reminds them, which is the name of the Federal task force now put into place to combat Scott Dunn. "Everything will be continue behind the scenes, as – per Dunn – the only agent who can be made in public is Kate Beckett."

He knows it is risky, but no way is he giving this to her all by herself. He's been impressed with her, yes, but not _that _impressed to depend completely on her. Not yet.

"We have just received our second clue . . . our second riddle," he tells them, as he hits PLAY on the DVR. The large wall monitor comes to life, with the face of Scott Dunn.

"Congratulations, Nikki," he begins. "A most impressive beginning," he smiles, and Agent Samuels suppresses a shudder.

"Of course, you can't really say that you _won_, per se, because you saved the General, but alas, poor Randall Thompson ended up with a major headache."

Dunn's smirk and chuckle causes many in the room to shift in their seats, and Kate Beckett feels another pang of guilt at the sad fact that everyone had – initially - celebrated Round One at the Lincoln Memorial as a victory, when – in truth - a life had been lost.

"You see, it's all bacon and eggs, Nikki," Dunn continues. "The General was_ involved_ in the breakfast, but _the driver_? Heh, heh, well _he_ was _committed_." Dunn throws his head back in laughter that lasts a good five or six seconds, and the room at large is appalled as they see tears of mirth in the man's eyes.

"Anyway," Dunn continues, "Time to go back to work. Here's your second riddle. Ready?"

He pauses a few seconds, looking into the camera, as if waiting for a response. Then feigning disappointment, he continues.

"Two brothers walk into a mall. Both are shot and buried in a city in Texas. People traveling to pay their respects should not do so tomorrow at noon."

"Too easy," Agent Bob Crawford comments under his breath, and Agent Candace Evans nods in agreement. Agent Kate Beckett, however, frowns. Yeah, it seems easy on the surface, but she knows Dunn. Nothing is straight forward with this man.

"And Nikki, you know I'm a fair man," Dunn continues, now not smiling. He has leaned into the camera so he is roughly a foot away.

"You know I _want_ you to figure these clues out. So I'm giving you an additional hint. Each of the places I strike form an acrostic. An acrostic that is very aligned with your family, Nikki. Specifically dear old mom, God rest her overly-righteous soul," he laughs. "Figure out the acrostic, and you figure out where I'm going to play well in advance."

The video goes black, and the room erupts with a cacophony of noise, as the agents begin sharing opinions and ideas. Kate Beckett is quiet, however, her eyes still glued to the now black screen on the wall.


	5. Chapter 5

**Hunt the Hunter: Chapter 5**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Friday, July 26th, in Washington, D.C., at 11:40 a.m.**_

'_Let the word go forth, from this time and place. To friend and foe alike, that the torch has been passed to a new generation of Americans. Let every nation know, whether it wishes us well or ill, that we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe to assure the survival and the success of liberty.'_

Federal Agent Kate Beckett stares quietly at the quote inscribed on the elliptical wall surrounding the John F. Kennedy gravesite at Arlington Cemetery. Some fifty feet away, the former president's equally slain brother, Robert, lies in his resting place.

"Penny for your thoughts, Agent Beckett?" comments Deputy Director Anthony Freedman, who stands a few feet from his agent. He doesn't look her way, doing nothing to acknowledge they know one another. Both hold black umbrellas, protecting them from the continuous downpour. The heat of yesterday – the past week, in fact – has given way to morning showers, and although it cast a decidedly somber pall over the already silent rolling hills, the rain is a welcome respite.

"I was just thinking about a movie," she responds without looking his way. "National Treasure. Few years ago. Nicolas Cage had a line that came to mind as I was reading this. He said that people don't talk like this anymore," she continues, pointing to the quote.

"That's because people don't think like this anymore," Freedman comments. Once again he finds himself impressed with the woman forced upon him, the agent he didn't ask for. The respect is slowly becoming mutual, as Kate Beckett found herself genuinely surprised when the Deputy Director insisted on accompanying his team of agents to the cemetery. It's a dangerous assignment, and one that a man with a different mindset would leave to his team. She wonders – again – how far into the pocket of Senator William Bracken her boss actually is.

Behind her the eternal flame guarding former President Kennedy's grave burns softly in the rain. Kate was not even born when the President was slain, and she feels an unnatural sense of loss for never seeing the man in his prime, hearing his voice, understanding his mind. She glances across the wide expanse of grave markers below, and suppresses a chill.

The remaining agents are scattered throughout the area – all within a hundred yards of Kate – and all posing as cemetery workers. The hillside area, with its spectacular views of the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument in the distance, has been closed to the public this morning, due to 'maintenance of the grounds.'

The riddle, as Agent Bob Crawford had mentioned yesterday, was easy. Too easy for Kate's liking. The mall referred to the National Mall, and the two brothers were John and Robert Kennedy. Two brothers come to Washington, D.C., and are shot. They are buried in Arlington Cemetery. Arlington is a suburb of Dallas, where the older brother met his demise.

"Kind of a morbid riddle, if you ask me," Agent Candace Evans had commented.

"You have no idea," Kate had muttered under her breath. She agrees with her colleagues that whatever is going to happen will go down here at Arlington Cemetery at noon today. That is roughly 19 minutes from now. She is concerned, however, because no target was given in the riddle. The only foreshadowing was a warning against people visiting the gravesite.

She doesn't believe Dunn has it in him to desecrate the gravesite of the former president, primarily because Jordan doesn't see him in that way.

"Doesn't really fit his profile," Shaw had stated flatly, concern written all over her face. "He's a serial killer, not a terrorist – no matter how the media is playing this up."

"So, why the face?" Kate had asked her last night during their video call. Kate wanted her friend's take on the matter, since she knows Dunn every bit as well as Kate does.

"Dunn won't let the press dictate who he is, how he operates," Jordan had said. "But you never know how he might decide to escalate things."

It's that escalation that worries Kate right now. Scott Dunn does like his little surprises, and although he's given them the location and the time, she is struggling with the target.

"You seem unusually anxious," Freedman comments, risking a sidelong glance at his agent. He is accustomed to the somewhat unflappable Kate Beckett, so the woman who fidgets – ever so slightly – next to him is a surprise.

"I . . . let's just say I have a history with cemeteries, sir," Kate whispers.

Recognition flares in Freedman's head, as he recalls his reading on one Kate Beckett last night. Her mother killed in an unsolved murder when Kate was in college, a determined Kate made a life-choice, a career change that placed her on the mean streets of New York as a cop. Her captain was killed during an ambush, and at the funeral, the woman standing next to him fell to a sniper's bullet. Last night's reading was a revelation to the Federal man. He finds himself questioning this game that Senator Bracken is playing with the woman – the primary question being 'why'. Why does he want her here, but unused? He mentioned that he owes her, and Freedman read about Beckett's live-saving dive for the Senator. But the Senator acts like anything but a grateful friend and ally.

He pushes his thoughts away, checking his watch.

"11:45," he comments, and walks away from Kate, continuing the agreed upon movements. He hears Kate behind him."

"I don't like it," she says, loud enough for him to hear as he takes his designated steps away. "We've closed the area off, but he's not here. We'd see him."

"Unless he came in last night," Agent Crawford comments in Kate's ear. Her earpiece is working fine, thankfully, allowing free communication between the agents in the area. "Could have come in and spent the night in here somewhere."

"Damn," Kate mutters.

"I know," Crawford continues. "We should have thought of that yesterday. He could be anywhere."

"Ok, people," Deputy Director Freedman says softly, knowing that all of his agents can hear him. "Go live, look sharp, and keep your eyes peeled for concealed areas."

"Ten highly trained agents, sitting ducks in a cemetery," comments Agent Ben Walsh from his post roughly one hundred yards away. He wears dark pants and a white shirt, pushing a wheel barrel.

"What did you say?!" Kate almost screams into her fellow agents' ears.

"What? What'd I say?" Walsh asks, sheepishly.

"No – you said trained agents . . . trains . . . oh God, no!" Kate screams, and drops her umbrella, now taking off at a full sprint down the hill and toward the entrance of the cemetery.

"Dunn specifically said 'people traveling should stay away' she manages to get out between breaths as she runs across the grass, protocol be damned. "He's going after a train."

"Oh God," Freedman belts out with frustration, knowing they could have – should have – seen this as a possibility. "It's the blue line!" he barks, and the agents now move in unison toward the entrance where the METRO trains make their stop – right outside the cemetery, out in the open.

It's a long sprint from the Kennedy gravesite to the front entrance, and Kate Beckett is all but out of breath once she gets there. Still, lungs burning, hair dripping wet now as the sky rumbles overhead with rolling thunder, she pushes on. Her mind takes her back to a similar scene, a few years ago, when she chased Dunn down the subway staircase in New York City, just barely missing him as he got away on one of the trains. But today, he's not running from her. Today she isn't running to catch him. Today she runs to stop him from killing.

Kate and Agent Walsh are the first to get to the train station right outside the entrance, and they take the stairs two at a time, getting down to the outdoor platform simultaneously. The blue line train is just departing. They are too late. She runs along the train as it starts to pick up speed, powering away from the Arlington Cemetery stop when she sees him.

As he was in New York, he is smiling at her through the window of the train car. And as he did in New York, he fires an imaginary gun at her.

"Dammit, we are losing him!" she screams into her mouthpiece. "He's on the train, pulling away now."

"What's the next stop on the line?" Walsh barks into his mouthpiece.

"The Pentagon," comes the hushed reply from Deputy Director Freedman. "I'll make the call. We will stop the train and get everyone off."

"You will be too late," Kate says somberly. "He will be gone, and God only knows how many people will be dead."

_**Friday, July 26th, at a Georgetown Bar, at 6 p.m.**_

'_Good evening. We open tonight's newscast with a horrific story of terrorism once again touching this nation. Just past noon today, a gruesome scene was discovered by Federal authorities on the Blue Line of the Washington Metro. Stopping the train because of suspicious behavior noted by departing passengers, authorities found an entire train section filled with almost a dozen victims, each killed with a single gunshot to the head. No additional information is being released at this time, and authorities would not confirm or deny that today's incident could also be related to the murder of Randall Thompson two days ago. Thompson was the driver for General Hollister, who was believed to be the original target. That today's incident involved civilians in placing the entire community on edge, as you might expect.'_

The small Georgetown bar where Kate Beckett sits with a few of her fellow agents has become eerily quiet, as the patrons consider the weight of the news they have just heard. A few drop dollar bills on their tables and quickly make their exit.

"It's starting," Agent Ben Walsh comments, watching the patrons leave the bar.

"They're scared," agrees Agent Candace Evans. "Wouldn't you be?"

"This is exactly what he does," Kate muses sadly, throwing down another shot of bourbon. "He puts fear in everyone. In an entire neighborhood. In an entire city. And I let him get away."

"_We_ let him get away, Kate," Evans tells her, softly but firmly. "This isn't just you. We all feel this."

"He's not playing a game with you, Candace," Kate tells her. "He is making this personal with me. I'm the one who knows him so well, theoretically. I should have figured this out."

"Kate –"

"One minute sooner, Ben," Kate laments. "I figure this out one minute sooner and we're on that train, and twelve people are alive tonight."

"Don't do this, Kate," Deputy Director Freedman warns. He's been silent up to this point, content to allow his agents to blow off steam, and emotions in what has become a federal hangout of sorts.

"Twelve people dead. Seventeen children who have lost a parent today," she continues, her mind reeling once she saw the names of the deceased and the family each left behind.

Freedman says nothing, knowing that his agent knows exactly how those seventeen 'children' feel at this moment, knowing that his agent is likely reliving her own past at this moment. Some of the children are of adult age, adults who have lost a parent. Some are teenagers, a little younger than Kate was when she lost her own mother to violent, senseless crime. The lone 'victim' left unharmed today was a young mother who had her two year-old son in her arms. She had told the authorities that the man on the train had left a message for her to deliver to the authorities.

'_Better luck next time,'_ was all he had told her. The authorities waiting at the Pentagon station had no idea what that meant. The agents who arrived some ten minutes later knew exactly what it meant. A warning, and a taunt.

"We have to stop this bastard," Evans comments as she stares at the television screen. "We can't let this happen four more times."

"_One_ more time is too many," Freedman states, staring at the television as well. He turns as he watches Kate Beckett push herself away from the table, dropping a few bills down.

"Where are you going, Kate?" he asks.

"Get some fresh air," she comments softly. "There are no answers in here, and I'm not waiting for the next riddle."

Seconds later, her feet dance across the cobblestone streets, as she breathes in the evening air, still smelling the rain that ended roughly half an hour ago. The overcast skies match her mood, and the mood of the four others who have run to join her.

"Keep you company?" Evans asks.

"I don't want company right now, Candace," Kate tells her.

"Well, then you keep us company then," Freedman tells her, as he falls alongside her. A few minutes later, after a silent walk, he steers the group into a small restaurant.

"Why are we here?" Kate asks her boss.

"Because they have tables, and tablecloths, and we have an acrostic to figure out," he tells her, then motions to the hostess for a table for five.

_**Friday, July 26th, in New York City, at 7:15 p.m.**_

"I heard the news already," Richard Castle says as a greeting into his cell phone. "Kate must . . . I know she . . . she must feel horrible," he finally gets out.

"She does," Jordan agrees. "You know her, how personally she takes things, how driven she can be."

"No, I have no idea," he deadpans. Normally the two would laugh at this, but neither is in a laughing mood right now. The events of today, along with Jordan's discovery today have cast a serious cloud over things.

"Have you spoken to her?" he asks.

"No, not yet. I will tonight. She did text me, telling me she is at dinner with the team," Shaw tells him. "Commiserating, I guess."

"Yeah, I guess," Castle agrees.

Jordan considers her next words carefully as she is trying to walk a thin line here when it comes to Castle and her friend in D.C., but Castle quickly changes the subject.

"What did you find out about Super PAC developments?" he asks. Now firmly back to business, Jordan settles in to the conversation.

"Well, two months ago, an interesting Super PAC by the name of Future Forward was registered."

"What's so interesting about that?" Castle asks.

"The interesting thing is so far, no monies have been declared, "she tells him.

"None?" Castles asks in wonderment."

"Nada," comes the reply from the Federal profiler. "That's strange in itself. Also strange is the wording I am finding associated with this new committee. It talks about the hypocrisy of the two party system, how America is being driven further into the past, revisiting the past mistakes, reliving the past results. It talks about taking a new direction toward the future."

"Sounds like a platform for an independent" Castle muses aloud.

"That's what I thought," Jordan agrees. "The interesting thing is that a Super PAC cannot be used to fund any single candidate. You cannot use those funds to run a campaign. But you _can_ use those funds to disparage another's campaign."

"True," Castle responds. "And that would be like Bracken, to run a campaign focusing on the ills or perceived shortfalls of others instead of his own platform. Still – the fact that no monies have been funded to date is odd."

"That's a good place to start for you, Castle," Jordan suggests. We know that Bracken wants to keep Kate out of New York. So whatever he is doing, he is doing there. This thing you have found sounds promising. Start digging a bit, Mr. Private Investigator – see what you can find out. See if anything regarding Future Forward is showing up on the streets there," she teases him with his new designation.

"Sounds good," he tells her. "Not sure where to start, but I will give it some thought tonight."

"Thanks, Rick. I appreciate it."

"No problem, glad to help Jordan." Castle is ready to sign off when a thought strikes him.

"Oh, Jordan," he continues, "I meant to ask you – just confirming something. You mentioned that Dunn told Beckett that his killings were going to follow an acrostic."

"Yes," Jordan replies, remembering her discussion from last night with the writer. "He mentioned that it was aligned – no, scratch that – he said _very_ aligned with Kate's mother. Of course he didn't say 'Kate', he said 'Nikki', but –"

"Same difference as far as Dunn is concerned," Castle tells her. "Johanna Beckett was an attorney. The first murder was at the Lincoln Memorial. The second was at the Arlington National Cemetery."

"What are you getting at, Castle?" Jordan asks, now further intrigued. She knows that Kate and her team had skulled this last night, with no success.

"The second murder site gives us the second letter. We have and 'L' for Lincoln and an 'A' for Arlington. 'L A', he tells her. "Her mom was an attorney."

"And another name for an attorney is a lawyer," Jordan smiles, shaking her head at the totally wild-spirited way this man's brain seems to work.

"The acrostic is LAWYER," he agrees. "She could probably use some good news tonight."

"You could tell her," Jordan says, giving him a reason to call.

"Not my call," he tells her flatly. "That's our deal, Jordan. This is between you and her, and you and I. I'm not ready to jump back into wonderland just yet."

"Hey, you can't fault me for trying, Rick," Jordan laughs, but from the lack of laughter returning from the author, she realizes that perhaps he can. She makes a mental note to herself to reign in any personal comments regarding Kate Beckett with him. For now, the wound remains too raw, and too recent. And she needs his help right now, and he has been more than agreeable to help. For her, that's more than enough.

"I will pass it on," she says, "and will tell her it was my epiphany."

"She will believe that," he agrees. "She knows you are brilliant."

"Why Mr. Castle, thank you so much," she teases. A few seconds later, they say their goodbyes, and Jordan hangs up, and then pulls up the contact information for her D.C. friend.

JORDAN: Hey, any luck with your puzzle?

She decides not to say anything regarding today's events at the cemetery. She knows they will talk – via video – tonight, and she will get the whole scoop then. Seconds later, the reply from her friend brings a smile to her face.

KATE: LAWYER. We figured it out over dinner about ten minutes ago. Will call you later.

Jordan smiles as she puts her phone away, sadly shaking her head as she realizes that – even with all the miles and a world of hurt separating them – her two friends unknowingly remain on that rare, connected wavelength.


	6. Chapter 6

**Hunt the Hunter: Chapter 6**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Saturday, July 27th, at Federal HQ in Washington, D.C., at 9:45 a.m.**_

The air conditioning is finally on, thankfully, as the small band of agents under Deputy Director Anthony Freedman sit around the conference table off to the side of his desk. He's brought the team in on this Saturday morning because . . . well, because twelve people have just died, with the promises of more to come within the next week. This isn't exactly a nine-to-five job right now.

His team, led – by necessity - by Kate Beckett, figured out the acrostic last night over dinner. He had asked everyone to go home, do whatever it is that they do to detach themselves for an evening, get their emotions back in check, and come with potential locations Dunn might target. It had been difficult for all of them, himself included, to step on the train of death, as the press had already dubbed it. A dozen civilians lying dead all around them – each with a single gunshot wound to the head - had gotten to even the most hardened of them. All killed execution style, Freedman wonders what those final moments on the train had to be like – did anyone fight back? Did it all happen so quickly that no one had a chance to react?

Now, back after a night's rest – or lack of, for some of them – the team does seem fresher, more ready to tackle the puzzle that is Scott Dunn. Kate Beckett's night, however, had been an informative one on multiple levels.

"He's a modern day Riddler," Jordan had mused aloud to Kate last night on what has become their nightly video call.

"Didn't figure you for a Batman fan," Kate had told her, with a frustrated sigh. It had been a long day for the former NYPD detective. "Find time to read comics often?"

"It's called a daughter who idolizes Catwoman," Jordan had laughed. "She's introduced me to the entire Rogues Gallery of villains."

"You sound like Cas-" Kate had started to say, before catching herself. Jordan could only watch as the emotions played out, tearing scars into her friend's face. And judging by her earlier conversation with Castle last night, Jordan knows the writer is far, far from ready to re-engage with her favorite former detective.

So this morning, Kate has ideas, ready to share with the team, and ready to hear their own. Now having figured out Dunn's acrostic puzzle, there is finally a sense that they can get ahead of things, possibly predict his future moves. In the back of her mind, however, Kate's cautionary senses are pounding from Jordan's final warning to her last night.

"Remember, Kate," she had told her, "you have figured out this puzzle because Dunn wanted you to figure it out. The only reason you have these letters to consider is because he gave them to you. You know how he is – if he has given you a clue –"

"If he has given me a clue, then he still thinks he is steps ahead of me," Kate had interrupted, finishing her friend's thought. That's where she finds herself today – questioning the information they have in hand.

"So, where are we, folks?" Freedman asks the team at large. "Who wants to start?"

"Well, and I don't want to presume too much, but I think it's kind of obvious – what with the puzzle we have to work with spelling out the word 'Lawyer' that the next target begins with a 'W'. First thought has to be the monument."

"I agree," Agent Mark Hill adds. "The Washington Monument is an obvious choice, and in close proximity to the two previous sites."

"He's used a gun and an explosive device," Agent Candace Evans comments. "I shudder to think of the words 'explosive' and 'Washington Monument' used in the same sentence."

"But we can't rule it out, Candace," Agent Ben Walsh replies. "We can't rule anything out with this guy at this point."

"You're both quiet," Freedman states, glancing at Agents Beckett and Samuels, who have yet to join the conversation. Samuels has come to the same conclusion last night that Kate has.

"I'm just not so sure that the answer is so obvious," he finally says, continuing to glance over at his new partner in the Agency. "If we are right about this, then we have a chance to cordon off the area. But look what good that did for us yesterday at the cemetery. We thought we had the location, but we were off by less than two hundred yards and two minutes. A dozen people died because of that."

The group nods, quiet for a second or two, when Kate speaks up.

"Back in 1986, I was almost a teenager, sitting in class at school," she begins, "and we watching the Challenger shuttle launch. That explosion was one of those signature moments in my life . . . along with others. Many people talk about remembering where they were when JKF was shot. I wasn't born then. But my JKF moment was the Shuttle explosion."

Heads nod, as each person in the room is old enough to recall exactly where they were at that tragic moment in American History.

"The point is, the explosion was caused by O-rings malfunctioning in colder weather," she continues. "But the real culprit, after years of analysis, was this simple concept known as groupthink."

Deputy Director Freedman smiles, and cannot suppress a chuckle. All heads turn toward him, and he quickly acknowledges his reaction.

"I don't mean to laugh," he comments. "On the contrary, it is ironic that I had a similar thought last night over dinner as we figured out Dunn's little acrostic puzzle. I say ironic because I immediately had the thought that we all are falling into a conclusion together, but I decided to hold my tongue so as not to halt momentum."

Kate's bright laughter at her boss' admission startles the group, but Freedman understands. To be cautious of a concept, and then fall prey to the concept in the same instant is funny. And ironic. And – as history has shown – dangerous.

"Okay, help me out here," Agent Walsh responds. "What is groupthink?"

"It is something that we – as federal agents – fall prey to far too often," Freedman comments, shaking his head.

"Groupthink," Kate begins, "is a concept I was introduced to in college at Stanford. To say that it left an impression on me is an understatement. Best description is that it is a condition where a group of well-intentioned people trying to solve a problem, strive for unanimity and togetherness to such a level that it overrides their ability or motivation to truly, realistically assess viable, opposing opinions."

"It leads to catastrophic decisions and results, all stemming from a group's inability to consider all options, all in the name of – ironically – teamwork," Freedman adds.

"The Challenger launch team ignored the advice of the engineers who knew the equipment best, kept them out of the decision-making process," Kate adds.

"From the Bay of Pigs fiasco, to the shift in United States Policy regarding Suddam Hussein due to 'blind patriotism' that affected decision-making after 9/11, the attack on Pearl Harbor – all of these are large-scale decisions that occurred because of groupthink," Freedman adds, standing and walking toward the window. "It happens when a group of people – _when the people in this room_ – want something to be true so badly that they ignore other people or dissenting opinions that should be considered."

Agent Samuels stands, walking toward the water cooler and pouring himself a small cup of water. Taking a long sip, he turns and asks the question that each of them in the room are now considering.

"So . . . what are we missing? We all consider the Washington Monument to be the obvious target. It was brought up, and all of us – each and every one of us –" he states, looking from person to person, "has fallen into universal agreement."

"So the question is," Kate continues, "is there an alternate location? Is there something we are missing because we all are high-fiving that we figured out the puzzle and all agree that the Monument is next?"

_**Saturday, July 27th, at the Watergate Hotel in Washington, D.C., at 10:05 a.m.**_

"Shh, shh, shh," Scott Dunn tells Marissa Stephens, as he tapes her mouth shut. Her wrists and feet are tied tightly, and she is chained to the large pipe running up the wall here in the ground floor telecommunications utility closet at the Watergate Hotel. The hotel – currently under renovation and closed to the public for the past few years – is scheduled to re-open two years from now, in the summer of 2015. It promises to be an upscale, modern experience with a touch of European flair.

The dust is thick in the still air here in the closet. Satisfied that the young woman is immobilized, he flips a switch on the explosive apparatus attached to her chest, diabolically turning the countdown timer upward so that it is clearly visible to his newest victim.

"She will have twelve hours to find you, Marissa," he tells her – his voice soft – slowly rubbing his hand along the side of her face in a soothing motion. "I will be honest, your chances are pretty good, all things considered. I mean, I know it looks bad now, but . . . well, Marissa, consider two points I have left in your favor."

He stands up, walking toward the door as the frightened woman attempts – unsuccessfully – to scream through her taped mouth and restraints.

"Point one," he begins. "Kate Beckett is no dummy. I think she has a 50-50 chance of figuring this out in time. I admit, the clue I have sent to her this morning is a bit more vague – let's hope that she paid attention during American History classes," he laughs.

"Point two," he continues, "Joshua is at home, safe in his crib. True, he is probably crying up a storm by now, but I left your front door open to your apartment. So if you have good neighbors, he's probably just an hour or so away from being safely in the hands of the police. Just remember, Marissa," he tells the tearful woman, "I could have brought the little tyke here, tied him up with you. But I'm no monster, Marissa."

He laughs as he turns out the light, as the small, stale utility room descends into darkness, and despair immediately takes a firm grip of Marissa Stephens. "I must thank you, however, for giving my little message to the police and the federal authorities yesterday," he chuckles. "Following you home was child's play."

He closes the door behind him, hearing the whimpering from the enclosed room. "Thank you, Marissa. You have played your role to perfection."

_**Still Saturday, July 27th, at Federal HQ in Washington, D.C., now 10:30 a.m.**_

"It just seems right, Kate," Agent Evans states, sipping on a cup of hot coffee. She makes a face, and walks to the small table next to the door and grabs a packet of creamer to add to her beverage. "He's been sticking to tourist locations so far, and the Monument is an obvious choice."

"It's an obvious choice," Kate agrees. "And that's why I am worried. We all agree it's the obvious choice. It was the first thing off of our lips, and even after a ten minute discussion on the dangers of groupthink, we all – every single one of us – still cling to the notion that the Monument is our only option."

Kate startles the room, pounding her first on the table as she stands and walks toward the door, and now paces Freedman's over-sized office.

"Dunn's smart," she continues. "He's ruthless, he's a madman, but he is highly intelligent. He knew how the NYPD would think, and he knows how the Feds think. He knows we fall into patterns, we fall into agreements easily. He's counting on it," she adds, running her hands through his head.

"Then give us other choices, Kate," Freedman interrupts. "Groupthink occurs when a team consciously does not consider other options. We're open here – give us something to go on, because so far, none of us has anything different."

"What other monuments begin with 'W', Kate," Candace Evans adds, then turning her question to the room at large. "Anyone?"

"That's it!" Kate exclaims, pumping her fist in victory. "That's it – that's the problem we have fallen into."

"What is it, Kate?" Agent Walsh asks.

"Monuments," she begins. "We keep thinking it's going to be a monument. I mean, why not? There are plenty of them here. Washington, Vietnam, Korean War, the Jefferson Memorial, the Smithsonians – those are obvious choices, and Dunn has led us down that path with his first two selections."

"Excuse me, Deputy Director," Jeff Washington states, sticking his head through the office door. The young man has left the security desk to bring up a package, knowing that the Deputy Director's administrative assistant isn't there in the building on the weekend.

"Hate to interrupt, sir, but this package was just delivered downstairs, to your attention."

"Thank you, Jeff," the Deputy Director acknowledges. Jeff Washington nods his head at Kate Beckett, who replies with a nod and a smile of her own. Washington likes the new agent, considering her to be more 'down to earth' than most of her colleagues.

"Do you get many packages on Saturdays, sir?" Agent Samuels asks their boss.

"I don't get many packages, period, folks," he tells the room, as he grabs a letter opener to cut open the sides of the package. Already feeling the contents, he knows what is in the envelope.

"I suspect our next clue is in my hands," he says aloud.

He glances to the board where Kate Beckett stands, writing a number of historical events on the board. He recognizes each of them as instances where the concept of groupthink negatively impacted the eventual results.

The Vietnam War, where the group thinking was that a tiny country could not overcome the overriding military might of the most powerful country in the world.

The Bay of Pigs Invasion, where a plan originally hatched during the 1950's Eisenhower administration was ultimately adopted by the Kennedy administration, the group thinking that fully vetting the CIA plan was essentially a waste of time, since the CIA obviously knew what they were doing.

The attack on Pearl Harbor, where the group thinking was that the Japanese would never dare attempt an all-out attack on the U.S., and even if they did, they wouldn't get close enough to succeed. Further, the group think was that the very existence of the fleet at Pearl was a deterrent enough, and even if that failed, the waters were too shallow for torpedoes to do enough damage to the fleet.

It's the fourth one that has caught his attention, and he sees – from the smile on her face – that Kate Beckett sees it also, since she has written each of these on the board.

Watergate, where the group thinking was so arrogant and flawed that it allowed the evidence of a wiretap crime to stay in existence on audio tapes held by the President himself.

Candace puts the DVD into the player, and seconds later, everyone's worst fears are confirmed. But for Freedman and Kate Beckett, it is a hollow victory of sorts.

"Good morning, Nikki," Dunn begins on the tape. He pans the camera toward Marissa Stephens, drawing a gasp from a few in the room. Everyone recognizes her as the sole survivor – along with her child – from yesterday's attack. And Dunn leaves the camera on her long enough for everyone to see the home-rigged bomb attached to the poor and frightened woman.

"As you can see, Marissa here made it off the train yesterday, but alas, her week is not yet over," he continues, then turns the video back onto himself.

"Well, I correct myself - that's up for debate. She may last the weekend, or she may only last until ten o'clock tonight, when the little firework display I have attached to her is set to go off. Come to the place where honor and decency were nixed in favor of simple arrogance. She will be where our local telephone crews would spend their time. Oh, and Nikki," he says, and then pauses for dramatic effect. "Do try to be on time this time, for dear Marissa's sake. Every minute counts, as you know."

Dunn stares at the camera for another second or two, before signing off.

"I left her child alone. Know that I could have placed the little tyke alongside his mother. But I'm not a monster. No child should be orphaned. No child should lose his mother," he says, and then smiles, panning closer to the camera.

"You, of all, people, should know that, Nikki." His laughter is cut short by the end of the video.


	7. Chapter 7

**Hunt the Hunter: Chapter 7**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Saturday, July 27th, at the Watergate Hotel (under renovation) in Washington, D.C., at 12:13 p.m.**_

Kate Beckett stands roughly three steps behind Special Agent Paul Kramer here in the telecommunications utility closet at the old Watergate Hotel. It's as close as he allows her to be as he works. The smell in here is musky, and the scene is made all the more eerie by the portable flood lights that the Feds have brought into the room for additional lighting for the explosives expert. Agent Kramer was contacted immediately by Deputy Director Anthony Freedman, once they all had seen the homemade bomb attached to Marissa Stephens on the video.

"Almost there, Miss Stephens," Kramer tells the clearly frightened woman. She still shakes, but the young, spunky woman is feeling a bit better about her chances, what with the entourage of Feds outside the door and here in the closet with her. Inside, along with Kramer and Kate Beckett is Deputy Director Freedman.

"I really wish you would step outside, Deputy Director," Kate tells her boss. "You have to recognize the danger here. You shouldn't be in here." She glances along the wall. She sees it but does not react, forcing her attention to continue on.

"You leave 'where I need to be' to me, Agent Beckett," the Deputy Director tells her, but quickly softens once he hears the harshness of his words.

"Kate, I appreciate the sentiment," he tells her. "But I belong right here, with my agents."

"Tony is just being Tony," Special Agent Kramer winks to Kate, breaking protocol by using his boss' first name. "Nothing new here." Kate, however, knows otherwise.

"How much longer?" Marissa asks, and no one in the small enclosed room blames her. The woman has had a horrific two days. First, she watches the murder of a dozen people inside her train car. That was yesterday. She and her son were spared, she was told at the time, to deliver a message. As it turns out, it was a temporary reprieve, as she was taken hours later by the same killer. From the safety of her own home.

"I'm guessing just a few more minutes, ma'am," Kramer tells her. She instinctively knows to be quiet, allowing the Fed to do his job in silence.

"That was pretty smart of you to figure out that he was keeping her here at the old Watergate Hotel," Freedman comments softly to Kate Beckett. "A far cry from the Washington Monument."

"Easy enough, sir," she replies evenly. "Once I started writing down examples of groupthink, and saw the Watergate scandal, that gave me another 'W'. Then when Dunn used the term 'nixed', well . . ."

"Yeah, lack of honor and decency, Nixon, pretty straightforward from there," Freedman mentions.

"Pure serendipity that we were talking about groupthink, though," she acknowledges. "Had we not . . ."

"Well, no ifs and buts," he smiles, his attention suddenly turning to Agent Kramer, who has let out an audible whoop.

"Got it," he smiles, as Kate and Freedman watch the now disarmed explosive device disengage from Marissa Stephens' chest. Everyone breathes a loud sigh of relief, especially a young mother now thinking only about her toddler child.

"Thank God," Marissa exhales, quickly getting to her feet but suddenly realizing her legs aren't quite working. Sure, the Feds untied her as soon as they got here, but they kept her on the ground. Now she is trying to make them work again.

"Let's get out of here," Kate tells the team. "This place gives me the creeps," she says, glancing back at the video camera she found buried in the wall.

Her boss and fellow agent chuckle – not at Kate – but nervously. They want out of here as badly as Kate does.

"Copy that, Kate," Kramer says aloud. "Been years since this place has been in use. Creepy is spot on target."

They walk at double time through the hallway and makeshift lobby, Kate speeding up and now dragging the young woman behind her.

"What's the hurry, Agent Beckett?" Freedman asks, now bursting into a jog just to keep up.

"In the room back there, sir," she begins, when the first explosion rocks the ground floor. She suspects it is just the first to blow, and now is in a full sprint for the front entrance, now only twenty feet away.

"Run!" she screams aloud – now basically dragging a terrified Marissa Stephens with her. Marissa – her adrenaline fully engaged – is in a dead sprint alongside Kate now as they approach the entrance. Five feet away, the secondary explosion can be heard.

"C'mon," Kate yells, holding the glass door open as Deputy Director Freedman and Special Agent Kramer rush through after Marissa. A third explosion rocks the newly-renovated check-in desk, exploding the glass doors behind them. Kate Beckett falls forward, feeling a sharp pain in her back and neck as she lands roughly on the ground, the breath knocked from her before unconsciousness takes hold of her – and everything goes black.

_**Saturday, July 27th, in New York City, at 12:20 p.m.**_

A cold chill runs down Richard Castle's spine as he stands outside the old Irish bar. Damn, it wasn't even ten days ago that he promised himself he would never darken the doors of this establishment again. Yet here he stands, knowing that – if all goes well – he's going to frequent this place quite a bit in the coming week.

He takes a final deep breath, and opens the door, walking in. He knows those who Finn Rourke has placed as lookouts in the bar have made him already.

"_Stay calm, old man,"_ he tells himself as he calmly walks through the lair of the Westies, straight toward the bar. He pulls out a bar stool, and sits, placing his elbows on the counter. A fairly attractive red-headed bartender eyes him, cautiously as she approaches.

"Are you certain that you are in the right place, friend?" she asks. Good. They are playing nice so far.

"Long day. Just looking for a few shots of good whiskey," he states gruffly, trying to fall into his role. He hopes he's not overdoing it, when he reconsiders.

"_These people know me," _he finally tells himself. _"They are going to accept me or they aren't. But they know an act when they see one."_

Immediately taking on a more friendly tone, he smiles at the bartender as she makes her way to the wall containing all of the bottles of liquor. His eyes are drawn to her shapely body, watching as it moves so smoothly as she goes about her task.

"_Focus, old man,"_ he smiles to himself. Whiskey in hand, she turns and walks back toward him, carrying a shot glass and a bottle. A good start if she is going to leave him the whole bottle.

"Thank you," he tells her. He reaches for the bottle but she playfully slaps his hand away.

"Uh, uh," she smiles. "No touching," she says almost seductively, and Castle has to wonder if there isn't a double meaning to her warning.

She pours a quick shot into the shot glass, putting the bottle down and sliding the shot glass in front of him.

"Again, thank you," Castle gives her, downing his drink in one quick motion. He takes out his phone, and starts flipping through photographs of Alexis. He smiles as he goes through image after image of the young girl. He comes across a selfie taken with Serena, and nods his head, smiling. She is proving to be a good . . . no, a great friend.

"Another?" the bartender asks him.

"No, not yet," he replies softly, as he stares at a picture of Kate Beckett that pops up. He thought he had deleted all of the pictures of Kate, yet here this one sits, staring back at him. Kind of. She stares straight ahead – not at him. He recognizes the picture immediately. Their first trip together to the Hamptons. Not quite what they had expected, what with a dead body in the pool and all. Still, it was their first trip as a couple. This picture was taken unbeknownst to Kate, while they were driving to the Hamptons. He had glanced over and caught her in a beautifully introspective moment, and quickly reached for his phone and captured the moment.

His finger hovers over the TRASH icon for a few seconds, when the bartender speaks up again.

"I wouldn't do that," she tells him with a soft smile.

"Why not?" he asks without glancing her way, his finger still wavering above the icon to permanently remove the last vestige of Kate Beckett from his life.

"Because if you wanted that picture gone, it would be gone already," she tells him, and quickly – surprisingly – she grabs his phone from him as she sees his finger tense, ready to drop down onto the fateful icon.

"You really don't want to do that," she repeats, now holding the offending device. "Not here, not in a bar, drinking whiskey shots."

She glances down at the image of Kate, her hair wind-swept back, and a soft smile adorning her face. The woman is gorgeous, and she risks a quick look back at the man on the barstool. He stares down at the picture as well.

"I don't know who she is – or who she_ was_," she tells him. "But she deserves a better good-bye than a counter in a dark bar."

She hands him his phone back, placing it on the counter next to him. She pours him another shot, and walks away, leaving him with a parting thought to consider.

"But it's your decision. Just not one that I would make here – or now." She saunters away, taking an order from a gruff-looking fellow four stools down.

Richard Castle doesn't touch his phone. He simply stares at it. At the offensive picture. He idly wonders how he missed deleting this one. No matter – she is long gone. Off where she wants to be. He could have gone after her, but he is tired of chasing. If the past few weeks have taught him anything, it is that there is a healthy, normal . . . no, better than normal relationship out there waiting. Two wives who didn't want him, and now an almost fiancée who made the same decision.

No, there is someone out there. But that's for another time. Right now, he has to regain his focus. He is here for a reason. He throws down the shot of whiskey and picks up his phone from the counter. With just one last idle glance, he closes out the photo app on his phone and places it in his inside jacket pocket.

"Empty glass," she comments when she returns. "You didn't fill it back up."

"You told me no touching," Castle smiles.

"Ah . . . you are a good listener," she smiles with him.

"Ah Lizzy, not exactly," the rough and raspy voice of Finn Rourke barks out just over Castle's shoulder. "Were he a good listener, Mr. Castle would not be sitting here in our establishment," he says, giving Castle's shoulder a tight – a very tight – squeeze.

_**Saturday, July 27th, outside the Watergate Hotel in Washington, D.C., at 1:03 p.m.**_

"Ouch, dammit, be careful back there," Kate winces, as she lies – face down - on the medical gurney in the ambulance. The paramedic works diligently, removing small pieces of glass that have embedded themselves into the back of her neck. Her jacket protected her back, only somewhat.

"Almost finished," the paramedic says. She's about thirty-five, with blonde hair and a stocky build. She works quickly and efficiently, thankfully. "Some antiseptic on these wounds and we'll be done."

"Thanks," Kate gives her, and then turns her head to face Deputy Director Anthony Freedman, who kneels on one knee next to her. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" she manages between winces.

"Not as much as I suspect you believe," he smiles. "Good to have you back, Agent Beckett."

He is silent for a few seconds, prompting Kate to question him.

"Something on your mind, sir?"

"Just curious how you knew there were secondary and tertiary explosive devices in the building?" he asks, and Kate can almost feel the unasked questions in his voice.

In truth, Deputy Director Anthony Freedman isn't sure what to make of Agent Kate Beckett. He wants to believe the best about her, for her. Unaware of the more nefarious side of one Senator William Bracken, Freedman considers Beckett to be a targeted rising star of sorts, simply because of Bracken's support for her, his desire to have her here.

Then again, the Senator doesn't exactly come across as her biggest fan either. He's had Freedman bring her here and then stick her in the closet. That's how Freedman sees the original assignments he has given her, sending her to one isolated location after another – easy, non-descript cases. Then – out of nowhere – a serial killer calls her out, challenging her to a contest of sorts. Freedman has done his homework, and found out that she does – in fact – have a past with this creep. Took him down a few years ago.

"_Supposedly took him down,"_ he had told himself a few minutes ago before Kate regained consciousness. He had stared for minutes at his agent, who – so far – has been right all three times against this madman. He's seen it with his own eyes, how quickly she figures things out, how she's right there when things start to go down.

"_Almost as if she knows what is happening in advance,"_ he had thought to himself, starting to question this relationship between his 'star' agent who was suddenly becoming more valuable, more impressive with each passing riddle. He wants to believe in her, he really does. But he also doesn't want to be played. And right now he is wondering. She can't be _this _good.

How did she know there were more bombs?

"Just a gut feel sir," she tells him, and somehow, even in her pain, Kate sees him wondering.

"A few years ago, when I faced him before," she begins, "I thought we had caught him. Thought we had beaten him. I went home to my apartment, and climbed into the tub to take a bath. Ouch! I thought you got them all," she gripes to the paramedic, who apologizes profusely.

"I'm sorry Agent Beckett, I will –"

"No, no . . . it's all right. My fault," Kate tells her. "I'm sorry." Kate turns her attention back to Freedman, who is listening attentively.

"Anyway, I get into my tub and minutes later, my entire apartment explodes. The only reason I am still here is because I was in the tub."

"_Lucky . . . and convenient,"_ Freedman thinks to himself. He wants to believe. He really does.

"As we walked out of that utility closet back in there, it was almost overpowering, the sense of déjà vu. He likes to make us think we've succeeded," Kate continues, "only to rip the rug out from underneath us. He is all about sleight of hand. He shows us one target while he is after another."

"What do you mean?" Freedman asks, now very curious.

"The general. He shows us the general when it was really the driver he was after. He shows us a gravesite when he's really after a train. And today, he shows us Marissa Stephens when he was really after . . . someone else."

"Someone else? Who?"

Kate pulls her blouse back down, covering her back, and touches the gauze that now covers the back of her neck before sitting up, her elbows on her knees, facing her boss.

"You," she tells him.

**A/N:** So, sometimes reality and fiction get a little too close for comfort. I storyboard my stories in advance before writing them, and I promise all of you – the fact that the parking garage at the real Watergate Hotel collapsed over a week ago is pure coincidence. Thankfully no one died, only a couple of injuries and a bunch of damaged cars. Still, when that happened, it almost made me reconsider this chapter. For those who don't know, The Watergate Hotel really is being renovated, and schedule to re-open for business in Washington, D.C. this summer.


	8. Chapter 8

**Hunt the Hunter: Chapter 8**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.

_**Saturday, July 27th, in an ambulance headed from the Watergate Hotel, at 1:17 p.m.**_

Deputy Director Anthony Freedman sits across from Kate Beckett in the ambulance, which is making good time to the hospital. Upon Kate's declaration of Dunn's real target – at least this is her opinion – the head Fed had quickly given the paramedics instructions to get them to the closest hospital with a trauma center. Knowing he has given them a good ten minutes, and ensuring that the paramedic team are all riding in the front – he now conducts a much more thorough debrief of his very special agent.

"Now that we have some privacy," he begins, "start talking, Agent Beckett. What's this nonsense about me being the target. I don't even know this lunatic. Why would –"

"First of all, sir," she interrupts, "you know that most serial killers don't necessarily know their targets personally. They aren't out for personal revenge. For them, it's something far more than that. So the fact that he doesn't know you is inconsequential. You know this," she continues.

"You're right," he gives her. "Still, I don't –"

"Excuse me for interrupting," she tells him, "but I am guessing you put the two of us into the ambulance and sent it rolling so that we could have a private conversation. We don't have a lot of time."

He nods in agreement, indicating she should continue.

"First of all, I'm going to go out on a very fragile limb here," Kate says, leaning backward to ease the stinging in her back. "If I am wrong, well then I'm probably dead at some point anyway. If I'm right, however, then we may – and I stress the word 'may' – be able to grant you a reprieve, sir."

She sees the confusion in her boss' face, and can barely suppress a smile.

"Your office is bugged. In the past couple of days, I have found three bugs there – along your window, on your printer tray, and most importantly – on Sandy's phone. That's the more ingenious one. There is a voice-activated sensor in your plant, built into the stem. I recognized it from one of Ri –"

She pauses, catching herself before continuing.

"I have a friend that is very familiar with these little guys. Anyway, the sensor is bi-directional. It picks up voice sounds in your office. If it comes from your desk, it opens the speaker on your conference table and allows someone to listen. If your phone system is an IP-based system, which I know that ours is, then it allows recording as well. If the voice is detected from the conference table, it opens the speaker on your desk phone. In either case, it is designed to allow someone to listen in without your knowledge."

"How did –"

"I found the exact same bugs in my office a few days ago," she tells him quickly. "Knowing what they look like – since they aren't the standard stuff we traditionally see, I first suspected that you were bugging me. On a hunch, however, I made sure to stand next to your window in our last meeting, pretending to stare outside. When I saw the exact same bug, I walked to your plant –"

"I remember," he interrupts, "I was wondering why you were admiring an artificial plant so intently."

"When I saw the sensor, I realized for certain that your office was bugged also. I made the assumption that you aren't bugging yourself, which told me that someone is keeping tabs on both of us."

For the first time now, the Deputy Director is feeling pangs of trepidation, wondering if he has – in fact – gotten in too far over his head. Unbeknownst to him, the bugs in both offices were planted by one Eric Vaughn during his last visit to their offices. Kate's office was bugged during one of his 'visits' to the restroom – where he didn't quite make it to the men's room. And Freedman's office? Bugged when Vaughn conveniently left his cell phone back in his office when Bracken, Vaughn and Freedman were leaving the building.

"You've made a deal with the devil, Deputy Director," Kate tells him evenly, her eyes unwavering, boring into his. "The reason I am here in your employment is because a certain Senator wanted me here. He made sure I got this job by making sure you gave it to me. Then he made sure you kept me out of D.C. by giving me little odd and ends jobs that any junior level police officer could handle. Every time I showed up in Idaho or North Dakota or wherever, the local police there wondered – openly – why the Feds were interested."

Kate's open admission – and the fact that so far, she is spot on – completely disarms the Deputy Director, who sits, mouth slightly agape against his better judgement.

"_Not the best poker player,"_ she tells herself, almost smiling as she continues.

"I wasn't sure why this Senator wanted me out of New York, and to be honest, I still haven't figured that piece out yet, but I will, I promise you that. However, then Scott Dunn shows up again, and I realized that was no coincidence. I don't believe in coincidences. I suspected his plan was to keep me busy. Six riddles and an acrostic? He's playing a game. Why, I don't know just yet. But killing the general's driver and not detonating the car bomb until the general and I were just barely out of range tuned me in to his thinking. Killing everyone on that train, but leaving Marissa Stephens alive – only to take her next told me she was his original target, and was kept alive to just leave us a message. But then I saw the bomb attached to Marissa. Let's just say, sir, that I have a little personal experience with bombs and explosive devices. Not that I know how to disarm them, but I recognized that what was attached to Marissa was something our bomb experts would handle easily."

"Which told you she wasn't the target," Freedman says softly, a sinking feeling in his stomach has just dropped a floor or two.

"Correct. I knew we'd get her out of it easily. That meant someone else was the target. I knew it wasn't me, because . . . well, let's just say that for now, the Senator believes he owes me a favor. So he won't try to take me out just yet –"

"Take you out?" Freedman interrupts. "C'mon, we're talking about a U.S. Senator here –"

"Let me finish, sir," she tells him, now rubbing her temples softly. "Knowing how Dunn thinks a bit, and knowing I wasn't the target, I started looking for the camera. I knew Dunn was watching. When I saw the video camera in the utility closet, I knew he was watching us. That's when I realized what Scott Dunn is really doing. He is eliminating loose ends for the Senator. I did some research last night. The general's driver has also driven for the Senator until three months ago. The train yesterday? A Simone Porter has been an intern for the Senator for the past six months. Every day for lunch, she takes the blue line to visit her boyfriend for lunch – a junior officer who works at the Pentagon."

Anthony Freedman swallows hard, trying desperately to force the bile that threatens to erupt, a geyser of spittle that he fights to keep inside.

"I realized that two people who have attachments to this one Senator dying a few days apart is no coincidence – like I said, I don't believe in them. Then we're at another potential kill site, and here is another person with ties to the Senator in the kill zone."

"Me," Freedman says a bit too weakly.

"'You," she nods. "So, sir, I don't know how deeply in bed with our friendly senator you think you are, but trust me, you are mistaken. You are collateral damage waiting to happen. The isolated murder of a Federal Director brings a lot of heat, and lot of questions – an investigation. But a top Fed who dies at the hand of a terrorist along with others – well, that's just being in the wrong place at the wrong time. No one will put it together."

The two are quiet for the next minute, riding out the small bumps on their journey to the hospital. Kate doesn't take her eyes off of her boss. She has opened up. She has put her cards on the table. It was a risky move, but her gut is telling her that although he's a part of what is happening, he doesn't realize the evil nature of his colleague, or his colleague's plan. And it's clear to him that her boss is as much in the dark about what the Senator is up to as she is."

But if she's wrong of course, then he's going to reach for his gun. Or find something sharp here in the ambulance. Or he's going to overpower her. Or at least try. Back hurting, neck stinging – it doesn't matter. She's coiled to strike, waiting for him to make his move.

"I'm going to level with you, Kate," he says suddenly. "I have to admit I am in uncharted waters here. I'm not sure what to do at this point. What you say is connecting a few dots for me, to be honest. But you make the Senator out to be this over-the-top Bond villain or something like that," he almost chuckles. "I know the Senator is under-handed, and trust me, that's not news in this town. But you make him sound – evil."

"He is evil," Kate says simply. "He killed my mother."

The silence becomes quite uncomfortable for the next half minute as the Deputy Director takes in this new information. As incredulous as all of this sounds, he finds the revelation credible simply because of what he has learned about Kate Beckett. The woman is a capable detective. More than capable. He watches her, realizing this isn't an emotional belief of hers. She's come to this conclusion based upon the discovery skills she has – skills that he has grown to admire in the past week.

"So again," he asks her. "What do we do?"

"We go hunting," she says evenly.

_**Saturday, July 27th, Almost an hour earlier at Finn Rourke's bar in New York City, at 12:35 p.m.**_

Richard Castle releases a breath, exhaling deeply, that he didn't realize he was holding on to. He quickly downs another shot of whiskey that Lizzy – that's what Finn has just called her – mercifully has poured for him.

"I must admit, Mr. Castle," Rourke begins. "I am more than just a little surprised to find you here again. Perhaps I did not make myself clear the last time we spoke . . ."

He lets the threat hang in the air, watching Castle closely. Whether from the alcohol or something else, he notices the novelist-turned-private investigator is not waffling or backing away.

"Oh, you were more than clear, Mr. Rourke," Castle begins, putting as much respect into his voice as he can without appearing totally submissive.

"And trust me, if it weren't of the utmost importance, I would be far, far from here. I don't make a habit of being somewhere I am not wanted or invited."

"Yet here you sit," Rourke counters. "I must say, that leaves me asking myself questions. I don't enjoy having questions without answers."

"Well, before you toss me out of here," Castle begins with his trademark smirk, "and I know I am getting tossed, let me tell you a story."

"You're the writer," Rourke replies, his own smirk painting his face. "Make it a good story."

"There is an election – a pretty big one as far as this country goes – that is coming up. It's going to be a three-way race, and right now it's pretty wide open," Castle begins his story. "As with any campaign, this one comes down to funding. And as is always the case, the funding isn't always . . . let's say on the up and up. One of our candidates has figured out a way to funnel money into an organization that will tip the scales in his favor – but the funds are definitely illegal. The mystery is where are the funds coming from? They aren't from donors, and they aren't from any committees. So in my story, that leaves more questionable sources. Embezzlement, extortions, drugs, kidnapping, blackmail –"

"Your story is walking down a dangerous road, Mr. Castle," Rourke tells him, the menace clearly implied.

"There is no disrespect intended, Mr. Rourke," Castle replies quickly. "I'm just a writer searching for the perfect plotline."

Castle takes another slow, small sip of the whiskey in his glass, gathering his courage again before continuing.

"So here is the deal," Castle says. "All pretense aside – the story I am telling you is real, and the questions I have are more important that I can articulate. I know you, Mr. Rourke. I know your business, and you have helped me in the recent past."

"A decision I am already growing to regret," Rourke comments, as he himself takes a long swallow from his glass.

"Please don't," Castle asks of him. "My bet for this story is that a new source of drug money is coming into play here in the city – right now. That's why I am coming to you –"

The change in Rourke's face is noticeable and frightening. Castle knows that drugs are not Rourke's thing. In fact, the mobster looks down on that particular trade. He quickly raises his hand defensively, and continues.

"I know that drugs aren't your thing, Mr. Rourke. But I also know that very little – if anything – happens in this city without you at least being aware of it. Knowing your feelings on drugs, I would bet a lot of money that you make it your business to know when anything major on that front is going down."

Rourke is silent. He knows Castle is rubbing up to him, but he also knows the writer is correct. If anything is happening, Rourke eventually does find out about it. And he is very curious now, because so far, a new drug trade or market is something that he has not heard about. So Castle's story is news to him, and that makes Richard Castle – at least for now – very important to Finn Rourke.

"Now I know zilch about the drug trade here in the city, Mr. Rourke," Castle continues. "But I do know that whatever happens isn't going to be small. If it's going to flood a campaign fund, then it's going to have to rain a flood of biblical proportions onto our streets. I think you care about that, Mr. Rourke. I think you care about that a great deal."

Lizzy throws a couple of ice cubes into Rourke's glass. The woman continues to appear out of nowhere.

"Ice?" she asks Castle?

"No, thank you," he replies, smiling. She returns the smile, and her eyes sparkle just a bit – enough to tie the writer's tongue briefly. No, he's not here looking for any companionship or fun, but he also can't ignore her attractiveness. He quickly pushes the thoughts out of his mind – he is so not going down that path. The red-head seems to recognize when the light of interest leaves the writer's eyes, and moves on.

"I don't want that kind of hell on our streets, Mr. Rourke," Castle continues. "And I need to find out where the deposits this little fund are going to come from? And I promise you – this man doesn't care who gets hurt along the way. And I mean hurt in the very permanent kind of way."

Castle finishes his drink, putting the glass back on the counter and pushing it away.

"That's my story, Mr. Rourke," he tells him. "I just want to know who in the city I need to be looking for, where I need to be . . . putting my discovery efforts if I wanted to find a new drug kingpin."

"And if I knew such information, Mr. Richard Castle," Rourke laughs, "why in heaven's name would I share it with the likes of you?"

"Because you don't want the streets flooded," Castle responds, his voice much stronger than he feels. "And you don't want to get into a gang war to stop it either. You don't want that kind of blood in the streets. Especially Westies blood."

"I could go to the cops with such information," Rourke replies.

The laughter from both men turns heads throughout the bar. The idea of Finn Rourke placing a call to the NYPD to inform them on a drug infusion breaks both men, Castle's laughter fun and mirthful while Rourke's laughter is loud and boisterous.

Rourke continues to chuckle as he stands up from the stool. His fierce gaze pierces Richard Castle, who – and he will later look back on this moment with great pride – keeps his gaze locked on Rourke's. Finally, the Irish mobster takes a step back and begins to walk away.

"The enemy of my enemy," Rourke mutters under his breath. "Come back – tomorrow night – at sundown, Mr. Castle," Rourke tells him. "We will discuss your story more." Rourke then glances over at his bartender who is drying glasses and putting them away.

"These are on the house for Mr. Castle here, Lizzy," he tells the bartender. Watching Castle offer the woman a smile of thanks, and the smile that is returned, Rourke leaves Castle with a final parting thought.

"I am beginning to like you, Mr. Castle," he tells him. "Just a little. Even so, I might be more careful how you look at my daughter there," he warns, and smirks at the dual change in expressions in both his daughter and the writer. The disappointment on his daughter's face is plain to see, and the expression on the writer – Rourke cannot place.

"_Curious,"_ he thinks to himself, leaving Castle sitting at the counter just thankful that he hasn't been physically tossed out.


	9. Chapter 9

**Hunt the Hunter: Chapter 9**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

_**Saturday, July 27**__**th**__**, at Senator William Bracken's Washington, D.C. home, at 6:22pm**_

"Hello Bishop," the Senator answers his phone. He has been expecting this call for the better part of the day. His sources have told him of the explosion at the Watergate Hotel. One more problem solved. Scott Dunn frowns and rolls his eyes at the greeting.

"_The Senator and his stupid games,"_ he thinks to himself as he gets down to business.

"We have a problem," Dunn begins. "He's still in the game."

"How is that possible?" Bracken asks one of his three top contractors that he uses. His triumvirate, his 'Holy Trinity' of assassins have always been effective, efficient and ruthlessly successful. Failure, even temporary, isn't something he has come to expect from any of these three.

"The explosion?" Bracken asks.

"The explosions went off without a hitch," Dunn tells him, "but he got out in time."

"Do tell," the Senator sighs, the frustration clearly in his voice.

"I think she made the video camera as soon as she walked into the utility closet," Dunn tells him. "She wasn't hovering around their so-called bomb expert and the mark, watching him disarm as expected. She seemed – well, she seemed disinterested. The only way that happens is if she made the camera, or she had already figured it out going in."

"Then she knows," Bracken acknowledges quietly, now falling deep into thought.

"I don't know how," Dunn counters testily. "I've been more than careful. I've given her a few softball riddles, and she's been focused there."

"Not careful enough, my friend," Bracken disagrees. He's not angry with his agent. Kate Beckett has proven to be a thorn in his side for a long, long time. The woman seems to have nine lives and an angel sitting on her shoulder.

"No matter," Dunn mutters. "He will be out of your hair within the week."

"I trust that he will, Bishop," Bracken notes as he signs off and hangs up the call.

The Senator is cleaning house, tying up loose ends. He is trying to put his funding vehicle into place, the first step in his march to the White House. At the same time, he is trying to clear off the bandwagon of anyone he has used and no longer needs. The list is long, and Deputy Director Anthony Freedman falls in this category. Freedman was useful when he helped get Kate to D.C., but now he has outlived his usefulness.

"Tony is not stupid," Bracken mutters to himself. He knew the Fed would begin – at some point – to see Kate Beckett for what she is: a damn good detective who solves crimes. At some point, the Fed would have to wonder why such a valuable resource was being put on the back burner. And then he would wonder about the Senator's real interest with the former detective. Eric Vaughn's bug has already shown Bracken what he needed to know, what he feared. That Freedman was slowly becoming a fan of the detective.

"_I liked you, Tony," _Bracken thinks._ "But you worry me now."_

Yeah, he needs to clean the bandwagon. Bracken knows that people are people – they just can't help themselves. If someone finds out something about you, or if they have inside information on you – ultimately, at some point, chances are far too likely that they will use that information for monetary gain. Or at least they will try to. Bracken is adamant in this belief, because it mirrors his own personal history.

It's what he did, all those years ago, when he found out about the clandestine team of police officers who were scamming the mob by kidnapping mob figures. When Bracken found out, he could have prosecuted. He could have tried to shut it down. Instead, he turned the tables on the officers, and used it as an opportunity to build his first political war chest. And it taught him a life lesson. Anyone who he uses must ultimately be dealt with – disposed of – before they do what _he_ himself did. Blackmail. Extort.

Left unchecked, they are risks to his presidency. And make no mistake, he considers it _his_ presidency right now. It is that close, he is beyond tasting it. No, he's chewed, swallowed and digested. This is his presidency to lose, and – in his mind – the only way he _can_ lose is for some misguided or disillusioned or flat-out greedy accomplice to develop delusions of grandeur or avarice.

Staring at his phone, another thought crosses his mind – not for the first time.

"Someday I'm going to have to deal with you as well, Bishop," he sighs sadly. Although he considers Scott Dunn a ticking time bomb, he is still _his _ticking time bomb, and a darn effective one at that. He stands up, stepping away from his desk and walks to the large arm chair in his den. Next to the chair is a small table with a chess board and pieces set in place. He grabs a tumbler and pours himself a glass of bourbon, and sits in the chair, exhaling heavily as he rests his back against the chair.

Glancing down at his chess board, he picks up the bishop on the white block. Dunn. He smiles at the board. There is no way he is going to leave something as important as his ascension to the presidency in the hands of the American people. That's why he has his chess board. A literal board in this study where he moves pieces – people – playing his what-if games.

Roy Montgomery was a Rook. Eric Vaughn is a Knight. As is his own wife, Elizabeth. Like Dunn, who uses his wealth and handsome looks to his (and the Senator's) advantage, so also does Elizabeth. She uses her beauty – and her looks are legendary to be sure – and her position to her advantage. To his advantage. Yeah, sometimes she has to go farther than the normal marriage vows would allow, but both understand and accept that the road to the White House is worth a few indiscretions.

Scott Dunn is a bishop, as is Jerry Tyson. Tyson, he likes. Dunn, not so much so.

Tyson is affable, and more controllable. Tyson is a wild dog, yeah, who you simply leash.

Scott Dunn, however, is flat-out insane, and completely uncontrollable. Whenever Bracken unleashes Dunn, he knows that the collateral damage can be massive. Tyson likes to kill in three's. It's his style. He likes to make a few kills – typically blonde women to mask his real target – and then disappear. Bracken asks him to kill one person, Tyson will kill three, leave no clues, and disappear.

Scott Dunn? Bracken asks him to kill two people, and so far Dunn has taken care of one of them, along with a dozen other innocent bystanders just for giggles. And, of course, he has to leave all of his damn clues. For him, it's a game.

Together, however different they may be, Dunn and Tyson are the ruthless arm of justice Bracken wields throughout his empire. They make up two thirds of his trio. The Russian rounds out the group. Elena Markov is his Queen. He uses her far more sparingly. You don't waste your queen on pawns. No, your Queen is used to take out bigger pieces – _even if those pieces are your own!_

He puts his Queen piece back on the board, thinking about Elena. Yeah, someday he is going to have to deal with Dunn, and that's why he has his Queen. She is the one exception. He will never get rid of her. And he uses her for the most special eliminations.

He brushes those thoughts away, as he considers his pawns.

Vulcan Simmons, Hal Lockwood, Dick Coonan, Bob Weldon. Some pawns are willing and aware of their role. Others, like Mayor Bob Weldon, are not. No, he will not leave his future in the hands of a public so easily swayed by social media and television spots. He takes matters into his own hands.

He leans back, closing his eyes, savoring the burn of the bourbon flowing down his throat. His mind comes back to Katherine Beckett.

Beckett is becoming a problem. Scratch that – she's always been a problem, but right now she is in danger of getting far too close to his real operation. She is not playing her role. She used to be very predictable. She no longer is. That's a big problem in William Bracken's world. Bracken knows Kate better than anyone, save the damn writer. And he knows that his plan with Eric Vaughn should have worked.

Handsome, rich and powerful, Eric should have worked with Kate. In the Senator's mind, Vaughn was a tried and tested slam dunk. Bracken has watched Kate Beckett for a long time and her pattern is clear, with romantic dalliances with cops, FBI agents, doctors, and finally her writer. If there is a woman on the planet who seems to need a guy attached, it was Kate Beckett. The test with Vaughn a few months ago could not have gone better. Vaughn's instructions were to get close and develop something that could be watered later.

Later is now.

Based upon her initial reaction and response to the billionaire, this should have worked. She allowed him to get close, allowed him to kiss her, and even afterward showed hesitancy when there should have been none. Having her here in D.C., alone and away from her boy-toy novelist, Vaughn's charms should have worked. Bracken had counted heavily on this. Vaughn was the perfect choice.

Until now.

Bracken isn't sure what changed, but he was counting on Vaughn winning her over. Because he didn't, because he was unsuccessful, well now the Senator has been forces to uncage his mad dog, the bishop, and the predictable carnage has followed. The carrot is always preferable to the hammer. And Scott Dunn is a hammer out of control.

His eyes open suddenly, as it dawns on him that if Kate Beckett has figured Dunn out so easily, figured Freedman out so quickly . . .

"Perhaps she knows about Eric," he thinks to himself. He hopes not, because he doesn't want Eric Vaughn to outlive his usefulness. After all, you don't just toss billionaires out with the bath water.

Then the second thought hits him. If Kate is figuring things out, then perhaps her ex-boyfriend is as well.

"Perhaps I should keep a closer eye on Mr. Castle," he thinks to himself. "Especially now."

_**Saturday, July 27**__**th**__**, at Richard Castle's New York City loft, at 7:05 p.m.**_

"Hey Castle", Jordan greets him after three rings. "Did I catch you at a bad time?"

"Not at all, very Special Agent Shaw," he smiles, and the Federal profiler laughs out loud into the phone. Richard Castle is – in her own words – a hoot. She enjoys him, probably a bit more than she should, she realizes.

"I'm just sitting at home, feet propped up, watching television," he tells her.

"Wait a second," she deadpans, holding her giggles back. "Let me check . . . yes, Saturday night, check. After seven, check. No hot dates, no book signings, no hot cases to work?"

"You wound me, woman," Castle smiles, bantering back and forth with the woman. He misses this. He used to do this with another woman. He pushes the thought away, and the moment of levity between the two passes.

"What can I do for you, Jordan?" he asks, his tone now changed. Jordan frowns sadly from her home in Chicago. Even though she is hundreds of miles away, she can all but 'see' the frivolity and fun fade from the writer-turned-private investigator's face.

"All work, Rick?" she tries one more time. He doesn't bite.

"You know me," he says without expression, and she reluctantly accepts this – for the moment.

"So, tell me what you have found?" she asks, now all business herself. She knows she is fortunate to have such a resource helping her – helping Kate, even if Kate doesn't know it.

"I met with Finn Rourke earlier today," he begins, when his friend interrupts his train of thought.

"Really?" she muses with a smile. "How's your ass?"

That gets another chuckle from Richard Castle, as the two had almost created a bet as to how long it would take for the old Irish mobster to toss Castle out onto the street – physically and literally.

"Actually in good form," he replies with a laugh.

"Do tell," she notes with a chuckle of her own.

"Do you want to hear this or not?" he laughs, and his mirth brings a smile back to her face. She knows where his head and heart are, and wants to make sure she is gentle with both.

"Okay, Okay – shoot," Jordan tells him.

"Didn't throw me out, my ass is fine, thank you very much," he continues. "In fact, he wants me to come back tomorrow night. He may have something for me."

"Really?" she notes with surprise. He recognizes the surprise her voice and smiles.

"Have to admit, I was kind of surprised, too," he tells her. "I mean, it was a long shot, right? But you were right. He doesn't want a gang war, he's too old for that. He's kind of enjoying his days now. Has his own daughter working the club."

"Should I be surprised that Richard Castle somehow has found Finn Rourke's daughter?" Jordan muses with a roll of her eyes.

"Not what you think, Jordan . . . well, okay, maybe a little what you think," he chuckles. "But I don't have time, or the heart, for that right now. Plus, Papa Rourke was very clear in his warning."

"I'd listen to Papa Rourke if I were you," Jordan laughs, and he joins her. _"Got him back,"_ Jordan smiles to herself.

"You really think he will help?" she asks, after their chuckling dies away.

"I don't know, Jordan, but I think so. He's a hard guy to read, you know? I could tell that something about what I said bothered him. Not sure if it was the drugs, or the potential violence, or the idea of a murderer in the White House."

"I guess he will tell you something tomorrow," Jordan notes, and then is clearly surprised with his next line of questioning.

"How's Beckett?" he asks. It's the last thing she expected. He quickly helps her understand his questioning. It's nothing personal, per se.

"Scott Dunn is not the safest play partner," he adds with a snort. "Is she okay? I heard about the explosions at the Watergate. I assume that was the 'W' in Dunn's riddle."

"Yeah, she is," Jordan replies, both happy at his interest, but also deflated in that she realizes that he is simply generally interested in her well-being – and with good reason, given who she is going up against. He knows this, as does Jordan.

"You know Dunn – but she is holding him at bay," Jordan finally states. "We are trying to anticipate what the future clues are going to be."

"You are looking at 'Y' then 'E' and finally 'R', right? Have you two figured any of them out yet?" he asks his Federal friend.

"Not yet," Shaw responds. "I do have to tell you that we are concerned with the escalation factor, though. You know Dunn, he starts small and then everything gets bigger and bigger."

"I agree," Castle nods his head. He has been thinking about possible targets since he had figured out the acrostic, LAWYER. He won't say, but he is proud of his ex for not falling for the obvious trap with the letter 'W'. The monument would have been the obvious choice. For her to figure out the Watergate, well, it had made him smile.

Momentarily.

"Everything will get bigger now," he reminds Jordan. "First he hits a driver in a single car. Then a dozen passengers on a train. Now an entire hotel."

"No casualties from the hotel, thank God," she interjects. "Any ideas, Rick?"

"None for 'Y' or 'E'," he replies quickly, and she can hear the hesitation in his voice.

"What is it? Spill it writer-boy," she tells him, and he smiles at the old nickname.

"I hope I'm wrong – but the last one, the 'R' . . . well, you know Dunn would want to go out with a bang, and on a massively large scale."

"What are you thinking, Rick?" she asks, a feeling of dread now floating around the pit of her stomach. She knows that his instincts are normally pretty accurate, once you get the beyond the fanboy sci-fi and fantasy notions that are never far from his mind.

"The Redskins," he tells her softly, hoping he is wrong. "I know the pre-season is around the corner. Is there anything going on at the stadium?"

"I don't know," she replies quickly, that feeling of dread now exploding into a thousand butterflies. Yeah, attacking a stadium would fit his profile. It's not anything he has done before, but each of his events do, in fact, escalate. Gunshots first, then explosions – that's his pattern.

"I will check into that," she promises.

"And Jordan," he interrupts, as another thought hits him. 'R' could stand for Redskins, but it could also stand for 'Robert', as in Robert F Kennedy."

"The old stadium," she muses aloud, nodding her head, noting that this would play well with Dunn. The Redskins used to play at the old RFK Stadium, which is now used for soccer and concerts and such. "Good catch, Rick," she says, again marveling at her – their – fortune in having such a resource. It strikes her for a moment how difficult a criminal Richard Castle would be to catch if he had decided to go down that path. Difficult indeed.

"You still with me, Jordan?" he asks her, noticing the extended silence.

"Still here, Castle," she plays off, or attempts to. "But signing off – I need to pass this on to our friend in D.C."

"You do that," he gives her. "And have a great weekend Jordan."

"You, too, Rick," and she is gone. He smiles for a moment. He really likes the profiler. In another time, under different circumstances . . .

He pushes the thoughts out of his mind, now back squarely thinking about one Finn Rourke, and what the older man might possibly come back with tomorrow.


	10. Chapter 10

**Hunt the Hunter: Chapter 10**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

_**Sunday, July 28**__**th**__**, The Coffee Shop just outside the Federal Building in Washington, D.C., at 10:00 a.m.**_

"You're sure it's me he is after?"

Deputy Director Anthony Freedman sits in the chair opposite Kate Beckett at the outdoor table. The withering summer beating has finally relented, giving them a couple of cooler days. It's Sunday, and although not a work-day, there are no days off right now for the agents under Freedman's command. Not with Scott Dunn still loose, and certainly not with the revelation that Kate has dropped into the Deputy Director's lap yesterday.

"Yes, I'm sure," Kate replies, her tone matter-of-fact, as she bites into a piece of banana bread to go with her sugar-free vanilla latte.

"How can you be certain?" he asks. The Federal man has been in tough spots in his career. But targeted by a madman? Him being the hunted instead of the hunter? It's a new world for Anthony Freedman, and one he is struggling with this morning.

"You saw the bugs in both our offices," she reminds him. "I know it's a lot to take in, sir, but trust me, you're in danger. You're the target."

Freedman runs nervous hands through his brushed back hair, sighing heavily. Kate eyes him with newfound respect and empathy. She knows what it is like to be targeted by a madman – specifically, by this particular madman.

"Dunn gave us very specific instructions, sir," Kate continues, taking a long sip from her drink. "He was very clear. It is supposed to be only me at these potential crime scenes. It's supposed to be him against me. The fact that you've been at the last two of his hits, literally right there with me – in plain sight – and he hasn't jumped on my case about it, about bringing you along – that tells me that he wanted you there all along, sir."

He considers her words, and frowns. Looking away, he rubs the bridge of his nose with his fingers, and his breath catches. Kate leans forward, gently touching his arm, then retracting it quickly as he gazes back at her, confusion written in his eyes.

"What is it, sir?" she asks, now confused herself.

"If you are right," he says, his voice barely cracking, "if you are right, then those dozen people on the train who died? They're on me – they are on my head."

"I don't follow, sir," she says, still leaning forward.

"He gave us very specific instructions – you just said that – those were your exact words," he begins, sitting back a bit now. "And he told us on the video, if anyone helps you, people die. If anyone is there besides you, people die."

"I know, sir, but he's been killing people anyway," she notes, her mind now considering his train of thought.

"It's clear he was going to kill Marissa Stephens," Freedman continues, "and the next target was supposed to be me. But he didn't kill Marissa that day. Instead, he killed a dozen people. A dozen other innocent people. Because I was there. Because all of our agents were there in the cemetery."

"And he probably made their disguise as soon as we got there," Kate muses aloud, now locked in with Freedman's thinking.

"My arrogance," Freedman laments loudly, slamming his fist on the table, his legs now spread and his head hanging between them. A few people at tables around them now begin to notice the scene playing out at their table.

"Sir, let me tell you what I learned from my first encounter with Scott Dunn," Kate tells him softly, lowering her voice and avoiding the eyes now staring at them.

"People died, I didn't get to them in time. One victim, sir, he left right at my doorstep. Taunting me. It took a long time – and more than a few sessions of therapy – for me to realize what I need you to realize now. It wasn't my fault. He's the bad guy, sir. Not me. Not you. Those dozen people – they aren't your fault. What happened to them was a tragedy – but not one caused by you."

They are quiet for a moment, and the prying eyes from others around them return to their own drinks, and sandwiches and pastries. The Deputy Director takes a deep breath, and then sits upright, placing his hands back on their table. He offers Kate a wistful smile. He wants to believe her. He really does.

"Well," he says, finally, "I need to deal with it – as did you. But for now, I can't be concerned about this," he continues, recovering. "Right now we need to figure out what his next move is."

Kate nods in agreement, now leaning back in her chair as well.

"We do need to do that, sir, you're right. But – with the understanding that regardless of his riddles, his clues – _you _are the real target."

If the Deputy Director agrees with her, he doesn't say. He simply stares ahead, offering a glance at a couple at the table adjacent to them, along the small wrought iron fence.

"Any ideas on who or what the 'Y' target or location might be?" he asks her softly. "There aren't a whole lot of 'Y' spots I can think of."

"You are the target," she reiterates. "As for the location," she muses aloud, now taking another sip of her drink, "the only thing that comes to mind is the Yacht Club."

"The Capital Yacht Club?" Freedman wonders aloud. The old historical site has moved a couple of times, and has a rich history – but basically, it is a private club, elite membership. It conducts boating activities, fundraising events, and corporate parties as they have recently opened some areas for public functions.

"What makes you think that is the target location?" he asks.

"Because Senator Bracken is hosting a very small, very exclusive, very elite fundraiser there in two days," she tells him. "I did a little research last night, once I thought about the Yacht Club, and checked their itinerary for this week. Our Senator is holding a little soiree, with only the elite of the elite invited."

"Wait a second," Freedman interrupts. "If he is behind all of this – if this is all Bracken's doing – then why would he place himself at the next target location? Why risk –"

"Because he is a master politician, sir," Kate replies quickly, placing her drink on the table. "Because he turns negative events that could derail most people into personal, political crusades for his brand of truth."

"How so?" Freedman asks.

"When I saved him – his driver turned out to be working for his enemies and tried to blow him up in his car – but when I saved him, he turned it into one of those television 'moments'. He turned it into a reformation against those who opposed his campaign and his vision, starting himself as the brave knight who wants to save the oppressed – some bullshit like that." Her eyes darken a bit as she recalls that evening, and its aftermath. Saving the man who murdered her mother.

Life does enjoy its little ironies.

"If there is some type of attack, with him present, where it could even be perceived that he is the target – well, trust me, that's the kind of play I see him making. Very consistent with his history."

"I don't know, Beckett," the Deputy Director argues. "I don't know many – no, I don't know _any_ politicians with the stones to put themselves into harm's way like this."

"You don't know Bracken, sir," she disagrees, and both are silent for a moment, staring at the truly understated logic of her words. Freedman doesn't know the Senator at all, and he is in bed with a wolf.

"Anyway, it won't be anything so dramatic," Kate continues. "He will make sure that he is well out of range of whatever happens, but that won't be the story on the news, believe me."

"And the real target," Freedman notes, quietly, already knowing the answer.

"As I said – you," she tells him. "In fact, sir, I would expect that sometime today or tomorrow morning, you are going to get a phone call. Either from Bracken or his assistant – I don't know who you normally speak with."

"I usually speak directly with the Senator," Freedman responds, a little tightness now growing in his chest. For the first time in the past day or so, he can see this happening – he can see how it could go down.

"Then he will call you himself, as he normally does," Kate continues, now laying the plotline out in front of them. "He will request your attendance, perhaps a friendly gesture, or perhaps as protection for him during the event."

"He has Secret Service personnel," he argues. "As a major presidential candidate, he's managed to obtain –"

"He will want you, Deputy Director," Kate interrupts, knowing that her boss is a dead-man-walking if he doesn't accept what she is telling him.

"He will want you," she repeats. "Look at it this way. When he asks for you, at least then you will know for sure that what I have told you is the truth. Then you won't have any reservations."

She reaches into her purse and takes out a couple of dollar bills. Standing up, now ready to leave, she takes her leave from the Deputy Director.

"Call me when he calls you, sir," she says, walking toward the wrought iron gate that opens to the sideway alongside the street.

"Where are you going?" he asks her.

"To the Yacht Club," she replies. "If Dunn is going to strike there, it will be well-planned. It always is. I want a chance to look around, see if I find anything out of the ordinary – or best case, see if I find him."

"Don't you think he will recognize you snooping around?" he asks, now standing and ready to leave himself as well.

"No sir," she smiles. "He won't see me coming."

_**Sunday, July 28**__**th**__**, At Washington Dulles International Airport, at 10:42 a.m.**_

The large airbus slowly lumbers down the runway after a smooth landing, decreasing its speed as it approaches a crossing runway.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Washington, D.C., " the flight attendant welcomes the passengers, who are now fidgeting with belongings in their seats. A few minutes later, the large aircraft slowly pulls to the gate, and now passengers sit on the edge of their seats, ready for the seatbelt light to extinguish, indicating the cattle call deplaning process is ready to commence.

The beautiful woman in last row of first class reaches across her to the man slumped against the window and slightly presses her hand against his neck. In her hand is a small needle, and seconds later, the man begins to move, searching for his bearings.

"Have . . . Have we landed?" he sputters, managing to the get the words out in a comical, slurring fashion.

"Yes," she replies. She gives him no other answer. The man – very talkative, very loud, quite obnoxious, had gotten on her final nerve an hour before, still over the Atlantic Ocean. She had popped him with a different concoction then, putting the garrulous businessman to sleep, after seriously considering a hard hit to the jugular or a silent kill with a hard, lower palm. There is no way she will encourage any future conversation with the poor man. She glances across the aisle, and satisfied that no one has noticed, she takes her small make-up mirror out and checks herself.

"You still look good, honey," the man smiles, his slur gone and his oppressive behavior back in form in record time.

She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath as she smiles. He is not worth the kill, no matter how tempting it is, and so – smile intact – she stands, and opens the overhead compartment above the seat. Her next-seat companion – ever the optimist – takes this as one final opportunity to connect with his seatmate.

"I can help with that," he tells her, brushing against her as he stands, presumably to assist her. His eyes bulge as her left hand reaches his neck, and squeezes quickly and holds the pressure.

"Please," she says softly with a force he will not soon forget. "Say another word to me," she continues. "Please."

Something about her tone, and the hard grip on his neck, finally gets through the now embarrassed and quite fearful businessman. A second later, she releases her grip, as the man drops into the aisle seat she has just vacated. She begins the short walk through the first-class cabin to exit the plane, her phone in hand. A second later, the phone is ringing as she walks through the jet tunnel to the gated area.

The Senator answers on the third ring.

"Hello, my queen," he greets her, and she can hear the subtle nervousness in his voice. It's odd, because so little rattles him, she notes.

"My king," she replies, knowing how the greeting makes the Senator feel. She also knows that those words coming from any other person in the world mean absolutely nothing to the Senator. Only from her do they have meaning.

"All is not well?" she asks.

"Perhaps, perhaps not," he replies. "I trust you have landed safely."

"I have," she responds. Very few words are spoken between the two of them on the phone. And she knows it is rare that he calls her into service, so yeah, things are probably not 'well', as she surmises.

"Good. Where are you staying?"

"The usual place."

"Lunch?" he asks.

"Dinner is better," she replies. "I know your schedule. Do not break it for me."

He considers his words, then changes his mind. One of the things – he knows – that she enjoys and respects about him is how he doesn't overly flatter her, how he doesn't fawn over her. How he treats her with honor and respect.

"Dinner then," he agrees. "Until then – and thank you again."

Before she can comment, he is gone, hanging up without another word. She smiles, nodding her head. Taking in her bearings, she glances around the terminal. It has been a year since she has been in Washington D.C., and she notes the subtle changes as she walks.

A short shuttle ride and a walk through the main terminal brings her to the taxi lanes, where she slides into the back seat of the cab after standing in line for just a few minutes. She glances down at her phone, scrolling through the photos.

She frowns as she looks at the picture of Scott Dunn. Sociopath, no honor, no code.

Her frown remains in place as she slides her finger sideways, pulling up the image of Jerry Tyson. A murderer of women primarily. He is the single, sole mark in her ledger against Senator William Bracken. That he would associate, that he would align himself with such a predator. She quickly slides her finger again, and smiles.

Richard Castle. She looks forward to the day she meets the man, her smile growing broader as she knows that day is coming much sooner than expected.


	11. Chapter 11

**Hunt the Hunter: Chapter 11**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

_**Sunday, July 28**__**th**__**, at Finn Rourke's Bar in New York City, at 6:25 p.m.**_

Richard Castle arrives at Rourke's establishment a few minutes later than he had anticipated, given a small fender bender along the way that slowed the taxi traffic. Not wanting to keep the man waiting, Castle opted to hop out a block away and walk the remaining distance instead of sitting through the traffic which has slowed to a crawl.

Opening the door, his eyes have to quickly adjust to the darkened interior. The bar is noisy, with laughter and merriment already in full swing on the last evening of the weekend. By now, Castle knows the routine. He doesn't need to ask for Rourke. The man likely already knows that he has arrived. No, Castle will keep their established protocol and simply walk over and take a seat at the bar counter, order a drink, and wait for the slightly eccentric and not-so-slightly frightening mobster to make his presence known. Members of the Westies have noticed his arrival, but have turned back to their drinks, their stories and their pool games. It's a good sign that the crew has – if not accepted him – at least has progressed to the point that they ignore him.

He sits at the bar, feeling just a tad on edge as he has opted for blue jeans and a black button-up shirt. No jacket, this is a radical change from his typical outerwear. Somehow, though, it does make him feel both comfortable and out of his element in this setting. No matter, he sees Lizzy walking toward him, and, yeah, sure enough, she is bringing a bottle of whiskey and two glasses with her.

"Hello, Lizzy," he greets her with a smile, while remembering the not-so-subtle warning from the woman's father given just yesterday.

"It's Eliza," she corrects him. "Dad is the only one who calls me Lizzy," she continues, pouring a quick drink into the two glasses. Each glass has a two single ice cubes. "Mom's name was Elizabeth. They named me Eliza, which is what I always go by. Except with Dad."

"You said your mother's name _was_ Elizabeth," he comments, noting the past tense she uses. He lets the thought hang for a few seconds.

"Died when I was thirteen," she replies, filling in the blanks. "A drug deal gone bad. Very bad. Somehow Mom was caught in the crossfire."

A large number of puzzle pieces fall nicely into place with the woman's admission. This explains Finn Rourke's outright hatred of the drug business, and anyone dealing with drugs. Drugs have taken away someone very important in his life. That loss has left a very permanent mark on the man's psyche.

"That explains a lot, Eliza," he notes softly. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well, life happens sometimes," she muses just as softly, where only he can hear. He wisely chooses not to press the issue for details, although his writer's brain and newly-emerging private investigator's curiosity screams at him to ask, ask, ask. Instead, he grabs a hold of the glass in front of him and takes a long swallow of the drink, enjoying the slight burn that accompanies it.

"So, Eliza," Castle begins, as he waits for her father to show, and looking to change the topic to something more upbeat. "Is bartending the extent of Eliza Rourke's daily life, or does she hide a secret identity being protected in this kind establishment?"

Eliza laughs, and her laugh is loud and genuine, clearly unaccustomed to such an articulate banter being laid at her feet. Not by the patrons of this 'establishment.' Still, laughing, she decides to play along.

"Why Mr. Castle," she chuckles, "there is so much behind this counter that you are unaware of," and she takes an equally long swallow, her eyes sparkling. She notes the clear interest in his eyes, smiling to herself. Then, just as quickly, she sees when the interest leaves his eyes, replaced by a dullness, replaced by a . . . it's almost a sadness. She mentally nods, understanding.

The photo. Whoever she is, she has left a scar of unimaginable pain on the man in front of her.

"You lose interest so easily, Mr. Castle," she comments, eyeing him carefully.

"Not a loss of interest, m'lady," he offers with a wistful smile. "More a loss of courage."

"My father's words carry that much weight with you?" she asks, mischievously, as she watches her father approach he counter, unbeknownst to the writer.

"No," he responds simply. "It is more recent events that have dampened my willingness. Your father's words would not influence me as much as you suspect."

"Is that so, Mr. Castle," the older man bellows in his ear.

"Eep!" Castle almost screeches, his voice an octave higher, and the patrons at the bar burst out in raucous laughter, joined by Lizzy Rourke. That's twice now the mobster has snuck up on him in this bar. Clearly he is going to have to work on that sixth sense that every P.I. he has read about in books and seen on the big screen seems to possess. Rather than backpedal and try to explain, Castle takes the different road. He's spent little time here, but has already learned that respect must be earned here. No apologies tonight, he will get right to business.

"Mr. Rourke," he nods his head and holds up a glass in a mock salute. "Thank you for seeing me again."

Rourke smiles inwardly, taken aback by the writer's sudden courage. Perhaps his daughter is good for the man, or perhaps the man is finally finding a pair of long-lost stones. Either way, Rourke is delighted with the development. If he is going to help this man, and if this man is going to be of any use to him, he's going to need this man to grow a pair, indeed.

"I will get right to it, Mr. Castle," Rourke tells him. "The night, she is still young, eh? I'd like to enjoy her company before it gets late," he says affably, as he grabs the third glass on the counter that his daughter has placed down, already filled. He takes a swallow and continues.

"I've decided to help you, Mr. Castle."

"That's great news," an obviously happy and somewhat surprised Richard Castle replies, the excitement on his face plain to all. "Can I ask why?"

"You may," the grizzled old man replies, taking another swallow.

Castle pauses, then chuckles at the joke. Finn Rourke is making a joke with him?

"Okay, I'll bite," Castle nods, as he takes a swallow himself. "Why help me?"

"Because I know of the man of whom you speak," Rourke tells him, his smile now gone and a glint of something sinister in his eyes. No, this is not a man to make an enemy, Castle notes.

"He is of a dark lot, that one," Rourke continues. "I don't mind the leader of the free world being a bit ruthless. You can almost appreciate that trait sitting in that office. But the truly dark ones? They belong _here_, in the streets, in bars like this one. Where they can be watched. Where they can be dealt with. They do not belong in the White House."

Castle doesn't move, doesn't respond. He is simply intrigued by the mindset of the man next to him, and silently wonders how many others of his ilk share his beliefs.

"And," Rourke presses onward, "he will have our streets running red with blood without the slightest hesitation."

With this, Castle nods. Yeah, he has just described Senator William Bracken perfectly. However, Castle now recalls that he has never mentioned Bracken's name to the mobster. Now is not the time for assumptions. He has to be sure that they are on the same page.

"I don't want to insult you Mr. Rourke," Castle begins, "but I do need to make sure that you and I aren't talking past each other. The man I referred to yesterday –"

"Is Senator William Bracken," Rourke adds testily in his gruff voice. "If you are coming to me for help, Mr. Castle, give me credit to understand your little riddles."

Castle nods respectfully. "My mistake, Mr. Rourke. Please accept my apology."

"No apology needed," Mr. Castle. "Just some mutual respect," he says, spitting the last word out with clear emphasis.

"Where do we start?" Castle asks. He turns and eyes Eliza, who stands next to them behind the bar, clearly intrigued with the discussion – and the foreplay – being conducted in front of her. She notes that her father is making allowances for Castle – and it surprises her.

"Can I get a refill, please, Eliza?" he asks,

"Eliza?" Rourke comments, an eyebrow raised suspiciously.

His daughter simply smiles, and pours more whiskey into Castle's glass before turning and walking – very slowly – to the other end of the bar to take an order from a loud patron who has slammed his mug on the counter.

"We start by following the money," Rourke begins, still eyeing Castle warily. "Watching the runners, following their trail. They aren't going to just take their drug money and walk into a bank with a deposit slip," he chuckles. "No, the banks have caught on to the typical laundering procedures. So, somewhere there is a pile of cash. A mighty big pile, Mr. Castle. And where there are piles of cash, there are counters. And where there are counters, there is a vehicle, a means for them to get the counted cash offshore. Once offshore, it will be funneled back here – legally. Once here, it is impossible to trace. So we must start with the known runners."

"Who owns these runners?" Castle asks.

"Simmons," Rourke spits out with venom. "Vulcan Simmons."

The change in Castles demeanor, and how Castle fidgets on the stool tells Rourke that – yeah – Richard Castle knows Vulcan Simmons, or knows of him. Castle remembers Simmons clearly. More, he remembers Simmons as the one perp in the box who caused Kate Beckett to completely lose it, to abandon her vaunted cool. Not many can cause that to happen. Yeah, he knows of Vulcan Simmons, and Simmons is a force to be reckoned with.

"I see from your reaction that you know of him," Rourke comments.

"You could say that, yes," Castle mutters. Rourke simply nods, his curiosity spiking. He will ask that question at a later time. He hears the ping on Castle's phone, and watches the writer glance down. He notices the frown – one of confusion - that appears on his face. The look disappears, quickly withdrawn, as Castle zones back into their conversation, shaking his head at his phone.

"Nasty fellow," Rourke continues. "Black Teflon, we call him. Nothing sticks to him. And he is ruthless beyond all measure, beyond any reason."

"Kind of got that sense as well," Castle nods quietly. "So, how do I get close enough to watch him, or his people."

"You don't, Mr. Castle," Rourke smiles. "I have my own ways."

_**Sunday, July 28**__**th**__**, At the Capital Yacht Club in Washington, D.C., at 6:45 p.m.**_

Kate Beckett stands in front of the mirror in the women's restroom inside the Capital Yacht Club. She wears a red wig, cut in a short style that hangs above her shoulders. She wears blue contact lenses, framed by large, plastic, black-rim glasses and a fake mole on her cheek. A biker's jacket and tight blue jeans complete the disguise. She idly wonders if even Richard Castle would walk past her, unknowingly. The thought of the writer causes her to pause, as she stares in the mirror.

She tries to push the thought – the man – out of her mind, but cannot. Jordan probably wouldn't appreciate this, but she has to reach out to him. Too much time has gone by, and whether he is ready or not, she has to get the lines back open. Or at least try. She knows that the more time that goes by, the easier she will be to forget – the harder it will be to get him back.

Taking her phone out, she pulls up his contact information, and types her message out.

_KATE: Just saying hello, Rick. I know you aren't ready. My mistake was staggering. _

She considers saying more, but opts against it. This is enough for now. She wants him to know she is thinking of him. She wants him to know that she is well aware of what she did. Right now, she just wants to turn the lights back on, however dimly. Their fall – instigated by her – was from the highest of heights. It will take time to rebuild. But time is all she has right now.

_If_ she can survive this latest little game conducted by the Senator.

She has spent the better part of the afternoon and early evening getting the lay of the land here at the Club, and it has paid off. An hour ago, she sat at a table, reading a magazine when a man entered the club and walked to the bar. The man glanced around, and Kate used her peripheral vision to watch him. She occasionally giggled softly to add to the appearance of a patron simply being lost in some amusing article.

After a few minutes, she noticed when he stood up from the bar and walked toward the side and appeared to stumble, dropping his drink and his cell phone. She had nodded appreciatively at the ruse, and watched as he subtly kicked his phone toward the podium where Senator Bracken is going to be standing. The tables are already set in place for tomorrow morning's event, with four chairs set in circular fashion around each table. She watched – like fans at a sporting event watching a horrific replay of an injury – as she realized she had a front seat view of a master killer, if there is such a thing, preparing the venue for his killing. He reached the first table, where she knows that the Senator will be sitting, along with two staff personnel and one Deputy Director Anthony Freedman. She had her phone out, placed strategically on her table, videotaping the entire proceeding.

Scott Dunn had bent over, presumably to pick up his shattered phone from the floor, but expertly had retrieved a small item from his inside jacket pocket. The small object was placed on the underside of the table, on a corner. Quickly and smoothly, he had lifted himself upward, making a broad gesture of cursing the broken screen on his cell phone.

Her experience told her to look away, and right at the right moment, she was looking out the window, appearing to be interested in something passing by as he glanced her way, then at a couple of other patrons, just to ensure he hasn't been made by anyone. Minutes later, the serial killer walked out of the Club, humming a tune to himself. She watched him walk toward the pier, and sit on a bench for ten minutes. She knew what he was doing – simply biding time to ensure that no one was the wiser. Then, in a moment she now considers pure serendipity, she watched Scott Dunn slowly stand and walk toward the row of boats on the wharf. Reaching the fifth boat, a smooth, sleek Sea Ray 410 Sundancer, he had given one last quick glance before boarding the sports yacht and going underneath. Ten minutes later, he reappeared, stepping to the street to pick up a cab that he had obviously called for while on the boat. So much for picking him up now – at least she knows where he is now hiding out.

Now, standing in the women's room, she puts her phone away and returns her thoughts to the serial killer, and what she has learned. She has left the small bomb on the underside of the table in place. With Dunn literally housing himself across the street, the chances are far too good that he will come again tonight, just to make sure nothing has been changed on his battlefield. She will return tomorrow morning. The breakfast event kicks off at 9am, and everyone will be setting things up early. She will get here with them, and remove the device at that time.

She considers the video that has come earlier this afternoon that Freedman had alerted her to. The riddle had simply reinforced the location, and Kate knows that he expects her to be here tomorrow. So there will be no need for a disguise tomorrow. She can walk here freely, and take care of things.

"_My parents used to take me to the boat show every year when I was a little boy," _Dunn had said in the video. _"We could never afford one, but I loved walking on the decks, going underneath, feeling like I was someone important."_

That was it, and Kate mentally sends up another note of thanks that they have figured out the acrostic in time. Had they not, this one would have been difficult. And knowing if they didn't show, Dunn would simply take out three innocent people while the Senator was primping and posing up front, well . . . she is thankful that that isn't going to happen now.

She grabs her helmet from the vanity in the restroom, and places it on her head, and walks out of the ladies room, making a beeline for the front door. Once outside, she hops on the black Harley, guns it to life and roars off down the street, on her way back to the Federal Building. Tomorrow is going to be a big day. But for now, she needs the Deputy Director to see what she has recorded. If he still has any misgivings, he won't after seeing this. She also knows that he probably won't sleep well tonight.

_**Sunday, July 28**__**th**__**, At La Chaumiere in Washington, D.C., at 6:45 p.m.**_

The setting is dark and cozy in the back corner of the well-known French restaurant on M Street in Washington, D.C.

Located just across the street from the Four Seasons Hotel, it is the typical spot where Senator William Bracken likes to meet with his Queen. It's convenient for her – which is always his top priority – as she always stays at the Four Seasons. He always ensures that her room – always the sixth floor corner suite – is available. She enjoys the old-world brick architecture which dominates the exterior that contrasts with the very modern décor inside the rooms and in the downstairs bar.

He sits, waiting patiently, sipping on a glass of red wine – her favorite that he has already ordered – nibbling on the bread when he sees her walking towards their table. As always, he is completely enthralled with this woman, her exotic beauty, the way she carries herself. And as always, he has to fight against the sudden inner arousal that comes with seeing this woman for the first time. It's an easy battle to fight, however, as he knows the line that she has very clearly drawn between them. He is the King, she is the Queen, but not the wife. He has one of those already, and she will never be any man's 'on-the-side' second. She has made that abundantly clear.

He is also aware of her rather draconian methods for dealing with unwanted suitors. Still, even the hint of danger that walks with her excites him.

Standing as she approaches, he reaches across to pull the chair out for her. She smiles, sits, and leans forward to offer him a soft kiss on the cheek. Her perfume is intoxicating, and he wonders where she will end up tonight, as clearly this is not for him.

"Hello," she whispers.

"Hello, Elena," he replies just as softly. "Thank you for coming. I do not take you for granted – I appreciate your willingness to come so quickly."

"You are welcome, William," she smiles demurely, and he can tell that although she gives the appearance that he is the only person in the room, she is actually taking in her surroundings. Her eyes casually glance here and there, her neck arching slightly so as to give the appearance that she is stretching.

"No one is here, Elena," he tells her. "I've been here for ten minutes, making sure."

"Your reconnaissance is not mine," she simply gives him – still smiling. When she is satisfied that there is no danger, she relaxes ever so slightly.

"You look marvelous, as always," he tells her. She smiles, returning the compliment.

"As do you. And thank you for the wine," she comments as she takes a sip. "It is magnificent, as usual."

Then, as always, she is straight to business. It is something that both intrigues and infuriates him about this tigress.

"So, I have the three targets," she mentions casually. "What are your wishes?"

"My two bishops have outlived their usefulness. They have both become reckless, far more interested in playing games with my pet detective," he chuckles. "Those two loose cannons will undo my campaign goals."

"I have warned you that you would someday lose control of your bishops," she notes with a bit of disdain. She recognizes that she, herself, is a killer. But she sees the two bishops as mass murderers who enjoy taking innocent lives. She prides herself on the fact that she has never killed 'an innocent'. Now, whether anyone truly deserves to die is an open discussion for poets and philosophers far smarter than she. But to take the life of innocents – that is a line she has never crossed.

In truth, however, she has looked forward to the moment when the Senator would give her the green light to take these two men out.

"Yes you have," he admits, "and my request of you is to relieve me of their presence."

She nods, and he can see the glint in her eyes that tells him this is an assignment she relishes, and has anticipated with 'great joy', as she often tells him.

"What of the writer?" she asks. That one is a bit of a surprise for her. She has never considered him a threat, although that is not her place. But moreover, she has also developed something of a liking for Richard Castle. His stories, his imagination has given her enjoyment in many flights, in many hotel rooms. She has often looked forward to someday meeting the man. Not to get a book signed, or anything like that. But just to carry on a short conversation, a minute – no more – to see if he truly is what he appears to be in his books.

"I just want you to keep an eye on him, Elena," he tells her quickly. "Find out if he knows anything about Lazarus – anything at all. I'm not interested in anything happening to him, but I've also decided I'm not going to make the mistake of underestimating him. I have done that recently with his ex-detective, and it could have easily come back to haunt me."

"So, your plan to drive a wedge between the two actually worked?" she offers him with surprise in her voice. She had mentally placed a wager that he would be unsuccessful in breaking up the storybook romance between Kate Beckett and Richard Castle.

"Far easier than even I anticipated," he smiles. "Vaughn was quite effective, and some level of doubt had to have been there already," he muses.

"Then she is not as smart as she appears," Elena replies.

"In some ways, my dear," he responds. "In some ways. Regardless, once you take care of my two problems, I would ask that you just keep an eye on the private investigator, just for a few –"

"_Who?"_ she asks with confusion on her face.

"Oh, that's right," he laughs out loud. "You don't know. When the detective left, he decided to fill the void by becoming a private investigator." He continues laughing, while Elena simply takes this new information in.

"Interesting," is all she says, before she continues their conversation. "You said a few . . . days, weeks?"

"Just a few days," he replies quickly. "I know your time is precious. Just a few days to make sure he isn't snooping, or getting close to anything."

"And if he is?" she asks, feeling – for her - a very unusual sense of foreboding.

"Well," he mutters, "let's just cross that bridge if it gets to that."

She nods her head as their waiter appears, introducing himself as Jean-Pierre, and showing them tonight's menu.

_**Sunday, July 28**__**th**__**, at Finn Rourke's Bar in New York City, at 7:18 p.m.**_

Finn Rourke has taken his leave from the bar counter, leaving Richard Castle alone at the bar. There are two empty seats between Castle and the nearest patrons, and the newly-registered private investigator considers tonight's findings. Rourke has agreed to help, and has given him a few details on the operations of Vulcan Simmons – operations that seem to have changed, escalated in the past few days. Just because Rourke doesn't approve of the drug trade does not mean he is oblivious to it. No, he makes it his business to understand many of the city's workings.

Something is happening – as a new series of drugs have hit the markets, and there are a lot of buyers – but the money trail has disappeared. The normal trade of cash isn't happening with these new transactions, and – as Rourke had commented in a fit of laughter – these new babies aren't being given away for free.

Castle considers these musings when Eliza drops a menu in front of him.

"Seeing that you are still here, I assume you might be hungry," she tells him.

"Actually, until you said something, I actually wasn't very hungry,' he realizes. "Are you eating dinner tonight?"

"Not for a long while," she tells him. "I'm here till closing. The burgers here are good, as are the fish and chips."

"Fish and chips it is," he smiles, then adds "since you are here until closing."

"You're an interesting man, Mr. Castle," she offers him with a smile. "But you are damaged goods. When you have made peace with the woman in your photo, call me. I don't care if you delete her photo or keep it. But I will not compete with a shadow. Even for something as simple as a dinner."

Castle smiles – a genuine smile tonight – appreciating her honesty, her transparency. It is refreshing – and it is the second time in the past few weeks that he has been offered honesty by a woman. He's far from ready to jump back into the fray again. She doesn't realize it, but she has nailed it completely. Kate Beckett _is_ a shadow – it's a perfect description. And until he deals with that shadow, it's not fair to anyone – himself included.

"Eliza," he tells her, searching for the right words. Not finding them, he settles for a simple word of thanks. "Thank you."

"I have more than enough just to compete with my father's oversight," she tells him with a chuckle, and he joins her with a smile. "I will not have an old flame joining him from the viewing gallery."

Yeah, he finds himself intrigued by this woman. _And her father_. He laughs to himself as she walks away to the kitchen window, putting his order in with the cook.

He glances at her one last time, and then retrieves his phone from his pocket, and pulls up the text message and reads it one more time before putting his phone back into his pocket.

"_Even I couldn't make this stuff up,"_ he muses to himself, and smiles as he spins on the barstool toward the interior of the bar, taking in the atmosphere. It stuns him to realize that he feels quite comfortable and . . . at home here.


	12. Chapter 12

**Hunt the Hunter: Chapter 12**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

_**Monday, July 29**__**th**__**, at The Capital Yacht Club in Washington, D.C, at 5:25 a.m.**_

The sun is still threatening to appear in the eastern sky as Special Agent Kate Beckett and Special Agent Paul Kramer both make their way into the river-side facility through a back entrance. Both are in disguise, just in case Scott Dunn has had a similar idea. She is counting on him not being there, however, and fortunately, that is the case.

She wears a short wig, cut in a bob hairstyle, with brown hair and blond streaks. She also wears – again – her large black-rimmed glasses, along with a large, overflowing black t-shirt that just hangs on her, with the words "Boat for Life" on the front.

Walking into the main dining area where the Senator is going to be making his remarks to an exclusive audience, she makes her way to the table at the front where she knows the Senator will be sitting with a few others, including Deputy Director Anthony Freedman, who she knows is the real target here.

Freedman is doing well, all things considered. Sure enough, as Kate had warned, he had received a phone call last night from Senator Bracken. Bracken had – as Kate predicted he would – insisted upon Freedman's attendance at this morning's event.

"I just want someone there I know I trust, Tony, given all this nonsense going on recently," Bracken had told him. Freedman noted to Kate this morning that there was a time – not very long ago, in fact – when such subtle, yet high praise from the Senator would have had a very different effect on the Deputy Director. There was a time when the Senator's opinion meant a great deal to Anthony Freedman. Not so, anymore. Last night's call simply validated what Kate has warned him about. Worse, she also showed him the video that she had captured, of Scott Dunn placing an explosive device at _his_ table.

"_It will be a small charge, enough to take you out, and anyone else at the table, while the Senator is at the front, giving his speech," _Kate had told him yesterday as he watched the video, his hands shaking in anger and admittedly, a bit of trepidation._ "The Senator will use his proximity to the bomb – and the fact that he was sitting at the table just minutes before – as proof that someone is out for him, to sabotage his campaign, to take him out."_

"_He used me for a sap, for a fool,"_ Freedman hisses, clearly angry and embarrassed that he was used so easily and efficiently.

"_He is a master at this, sir,"_ Kate had told him, trying to get her boss focused on the task at hand. And now, speaking of matters at hand, she watches as Agent Kramer gives the incendiary device a closer visual inspection.

"It's clean," he finally tells her, indicating that it is okay for him to detach the small bomb from underneath the table. He does so, handing the small device to Beckett and then uses the table to lift himself up from the ground.

"Do you want me to deactivate this little critter?" he asks, holding his hand out to her, but is surprised with her response.

"No," Kate tells him, keeping the device. "Dunn may have some way of detecting if this guy is disarmed. And anyway," she continues with just a glint of menace, "I have better use for our little friend here."

The faraway look in Kate's eyes is not something Kramer is used to seeing from fellow agents. In fact, it somewhat frightens the bomb expert as he wonders what is going through the mind of his colleague. Sure, all of them are on edge about catching this nut-job, but Kate Beckett seems to be willing to go a bit further out there on the proverbial limb.

"Let's go," she instructs him, while adding, "I can just attach this guy anywhere, correct?"

"That's correct," Kramer tells her as they exit through the same back entrance they used to enter the building. "What are you planning, Kate?"

"The less you know, the better, Paul."

"_Yeah, she's way, way out on a limb, this one,"_ Kramer thinks to himself as they walk toward the unmarked cruiser. Climbing in to the driver's seat, he notices Kate hanging outside the vehicle on the passenger side, getting something out of the back seat. She joins him seconds later, with a small, waterproofed bag, and an equally waterproofed container, and a package of quick contact adhesive.

"Kate?" he questions.

"Start driving, Paul," is all she gives him, "and when you get to the far edge of the pier, stop and let me out." While talking, she attaches the adhesive to Scott Dunn's small explosive they have just confiscated from the Yacht Club, and places the small unit into the watertight bag, and places the bag in the waterproofed container.

"Kate?" he questions again, while following her lead and driving toward the edge of the pier.

"Just stay put," she tells him. "Give me ten, fifteen minutes, tops," as she slips her shoes off and hops out of the vehicle, barely giving him a chance to stop the car.

She jogs to the edge of the water and in one smooth, elegant and surprising motion jumps out and launches herself vertically into the waters. She breaststrokes the roughly hundred yards from this spot to the boats docked in the marina, and another fifty yards before settling in next to Dunn's craft. She works quickly, taking the small explosive out of its containers and attaching it to the hull of the Sundancer sports yacht.

Satisfied that it isn't going to detach and that she hasn't been detected, she smiles, and slips back underwater, swimming under the surface for twenty or so feet, putting distance between herself and his boat before re-surfacing. She casually freestyles the remaining distance back to her original point, stroking smoothly and effortlessly. When she gets to the water's edge to pull herself up, she is startled to find the outstretched hand of Anthony Freedman, who had watched his two agents depart after retrieving the bomb without so much as a goodbye. He had been surprised to see Kramer stop the vehicle, and even more surprised to see Kate Beckett disembark and launch herself into the Potomac River.

Kate reaches upward, grabbing Freedman's hand and allowing the man to pull her up and out of the water. He gazes at her, questioningly.

"Stanford swim team," he the only response she gives him, with a smile, as she climbs back into the cruiser with Paul Kramer, soaking wet.

"See you back at the office, sir," she tells him as they pull away. "Make yourself scarce, in case he comes out." With that, the unmarked cruiser pulls away with a smiling Kate Beckett, and a Paul Kramer who is promising himself to never piss this woman off.

Deputy Director Anthony Freedman finds himself thinking the exact same thing as he walks to his car, gunning it to life, and heads back to their offices.

Kate Beckett, meanwhile, sits with drenched clothes, her eyes closed and her window open, as she and Agent Kramer zip through the city. It had occurred to her last night that the boat was likely not Scott Dunn's hideout. It's not where he is staying. No, she has decided, it is his getaway, his means of escape from the carnage he intends to create later this morning.

"_Won't he be surprised,"_ she muses silently to herself, smiling broadly.

_**Monday, July 29**__**th**__**, at The Capital Yacht Club in Washington, D.C, at 9:33 a.m.**_

Senator William Bracken is three minutes into his remarks to the captive audience. He stands, tall and proud, behind the podium, knowing that very soon one of his loose ends will be dealt with, and in a manner that helps his campaign. It's all too delicious, and he has to caution himself about looking too pleased.

During his initial remarks, welcoming his exclusively-invited guests, Bracken's eyes have found Kate Beckett. The two exchange a look, and he gives her his trademark smirk, as he continues his opening statements. He has expected her to be here – hell, she _has_ to be here to stop whatever she thinks Dunn is going to be doing this morning.

Seconds later, across the street and in the marina, the 410 Sundancer sports yacht explodes, lighting up the glass windows behind all of the guests who are turned, facing Bracken, listening intently to his speech. It is a massive explosion, one that takes out the large craft completely while setting on fire the two boats on either side of it.

Kate is stunned, but the look on William Bracken's face is priceless – a look that will keep Kate Beckett amused for a long time to come. She realizes, by the look of genuine fear and horror painted on the Senator's face, that had the bomb been left in place under the table, it would have easily taken out the entire front half of the restaurant – if not most of it – along with the Senator. The bomb had been meant to take out Bracken as well. He realizes this immediately when he sees the size of the explosion. He also realizes, sharing a quick glance toward Kate Beckett, that without her help, he would be dead. He immediately realizes that she had found the device, and moved it.

"_Clever girl," _he quickly surmises with grudging admiration._ "She was trying to take Dunn out herself."_

Clearly this is not Elena's doing, who stands in the back of the room as planned. Elena looks as confused and surprised as anyone else. Besides, this isn't Elena's style. The Russian opts for the close kill, with a knife. She enjoys the close physical proximity with her targets.

The Senator, although grateful, cannot suppress the frown that grows.

"_I owe this bitch again – a second time,"_ he thinks to himself.

Kate, for her part, cannot focus on Bracken right now, because she is looking for someone. Someone out of place, someone not just surprised, but someone who is angry, who is frustrated. She is looking for someone to rush out toward the pier. She finds her quarry in the tall, blonde man with gold wire-rim glasses and a mustache.

"Good disguise," she tells herself, knowing that she had missed him in her surveillance in the past half hour. But he glances at the Senator, then at Kate – and that confirms it for her. Yeah, he had seen her earlier – and this is bad news – and he had made her. He had seen through her disguise. And now that his getaway plan is kaput, he makes the mistake of allowing his gaze to linger on Kate for just a second too long. With all of the commotion going on here, and the Senator in clear danger, there should be no one focusing on Kate. No one should be picking her out here – no one, that is, except for Scott Dunn.

Making up his mind, Dunn rushes out of the restaurant, and a second later, Kate Beckett takes off in hot pursuit.

Unbeknownst to both of them, the Russian woman watches this new development with a somewhat sinister smile, and takes off after both of them.

The hunt now on, hunter chasing hunter chasing target. Scott Dunn runs down the sidewalk and across the street, sprinting toward the marina, with Kate pursuing quickly. Elena Markov, however, spots both and sticks close the trees lining the street, moving toward the end of the pier where the marina opens up into the river. She is an experienced hunter, and knows that Dunn will wildly spray the growing crowd of gawkers and onlookers.

At that very moment, Dunn turns and takes a few wild shots into the crowd, as Kate yells to the pedestrians to take cover.

"Everybody down!" she yells, while still running on a straight line toward Dunn, who has now turned and is running down the pier. A couple of pedestrians fall to the side, hit by the wild gunfire from a very angry Scott Dunn.

"_Shit,"_ Beckett thinks to herself, knowing that she has to stop and render aid – even though it means he will get away. Again.

She is pleasantly surprised and relieved when Deputy Director Freedman gets to her as she crouches over one of the victims.

"I've got things here," he tells her. "Go get this bastard!"

Rising quickly, she takes off sprinting again, searching left and right to find Dunn. She smiles as she spots him running down the wharf pier, but is surprised to see him leap out in a graceful dive into the waters beyond the boat.

"_What the hell?"_ she thinks, as she wonders what he is doing. Surely he doesn't think he's going to _swim_ away from her . . .

Then she spots it – she sees what he has seen, probably just seconds before her. There is a second sports yacht pulling out of the marina, yet to pick up speed. Many of the boats are now gunning to life, as their owners are looking to make a quick getaway out of this potential firestorm. The craft Dunn is focused on is still a good twenty yards away from him, slowly making its way down the marina toward the open water. Dunn yells for help, pretending to be an innocent bystander caught up in the explosion.

"Help! Help!" he yells repeatedly as he swims to the approaching boat. Sure enough, the craft slows, allowing Dunn to reach the ladder and climb aboard. Making his way to the bridge, he – in a moment of rare mercy – offers the couple there a choice.

"Jump or die," he tells them quickly, pointing his pistol at them. Whether or not it still works after a dip in the water is beyond him – but he knows they won't be thinking that quickly. Fortunately, the couple opts for life, and jump into the waters below. Dunn pulls into the open waters, knowing that she will be giving chase.

Kate – indeed – is still giving chase, and spots a smaller, faster vessel backing away from the pier docks. She takes a running jump and lands on the deck, clearly scaring the daylights out of the couple trying to get away. She shows them her federal badge.

"Federal Agent," she tells them, "I am commandeering this craft. You can stay or leave – decide quickly."

The couple hesitate to make a decision, so she makes it for them.

"Staying it is, then," she says, pushing the man out of the way and gunning the craft down the marina, her eyes focused on the departing sports yacht containing her enemy. Elena Markov, still across the street, parallel to her on the pier, smiles as she watches the pursuit.

"Not bad," she says aloud, watching the ex-Detective from New York who has given her colleague such fits in the past year. She nods her head, a predatory smile gracing her features as she mentally takes notes on the woman who – she is certain – will be a future target.

Meanwhile, Scott Dunn is busy aboard the large craft – knowing that this is simply a delaying tactic. The serial killer – always a quick study – already has a secondary escape plan formulating on the fly. Getting into this cruiser was just a ruse. He knows he can't escape in this thing. But he needs them to think that is what he is trying to do.

He finds a discarded shirt, thankful for the amorous activities of the previous couple on board, and ties off the craft's steering column to a side. This allows the ship to continue its current direction down the river, but toward the shoreline.

"I'll show you another explosion," he thinks to himself, as he also ties the throttle down, keeping the speed constant. Then, satisfied, he launches himself overboard, content that he can make the two-hundred yard swim to the shore.

Kate, of course, does not notice his departure, and continues giving chase, as she and the married couple who own her current craft watch in horror as the sports yacht ahead continues its suicidal course to the shoreline. Seconds before it crashes, Kate realizes that she has been played.

"He ditched the craft," she hisses angrily, "Dammit!"

She banks her craft hard right back into the open waters as the explosion before them lights up the morning sky, frustrated and knowing that she will have to wait for his next video, or phone call.

A few minutes later, she brings the craft alongside a police cruiser that has given chase, following both crafts.

"Thank you for your assistance," Kate tells the couple, who are just now starting to regain their wits. "This was very brave of you," she says, as she leaps across the two foot gap left by the cruiser onto its deck, and the cruiser pulls away, leaving a stunned couple with the story of a lifetime.


	13. Chapter 13

**Hunt the Hunter: Chapter 13**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

_**Wednesday, July 31**__**th**__**, Across the street from the Federal Building in Washington, D.C, at 11:27 a.m.**_

Elena Markov sits crouched in the corner of the storage room, roughly four feet behind the open window. She is just far enough out of sight not to be noticed, and has a clean shot at the third floor window in the Federal Building just across Fourth Street.

She relaxes her breathing, pulling the massive bow to its maximum extent, and then lets the arrow fly – swift and true – to its destination. It lands in the stone wall, just half an inch from the window itself on the Federal building. As it burrows into the stone, four mechanical arms retract and find their places in the wall, firmly attached. A final fifth arm subsequently retracts as well, and this one is fairly transparent, locking itself on to the window.

The beautiful Russian flips the knob on her small receiver until it points to the number three, and immediately hears the voices of Kate Beckett and another woman in the Federal Agent's office. Elena smiles, satisfied that she now has put everything she needs into place. This was the last of three arrows fired at the windows of specific offices this morning. The first gives her listening access to Deputy Director Anthony Freedman's office. The second accesses the conference room just off his office that he typically uses. And the final one – of course – is for Agent Kate Beckett.

Markov quickly closes the window, and glances down at the unconscious worker from the barbeque restaurant she has quietly used for the past half hour. He will be fine, she knows, as she re-packs her weapon into what appears to be a soft guitar bag, and moves out, walking through the kitchen, inhaling the barbeque smoke and smiling. She walks past the hungry patrons, no one the wiser of her recent activities, adjusting her earpiece as she makes her way to a table and sits to order a pork sandwich.

Barbeque. It's one of the things she misses when she leaves America, going abroad to other assignments, or just for some well-deserved R&amp;R at one of the many homes she has 'acquired' around the world. She idly thinks about a trip to Texas, or to Tennessee or Missouri, where she has found the best barbeque on the planet – or so she will swear to anyone. She smiles at the waiter, asking for a glass of ice water, then quickly waves him away as she hears Kate talking again.

_**Wednesday, July 31**__**th**__**, at the Federal Building in Washington, D.C, at 11:35 a.m.**_

"When did this come in again, Kate?"

"Fifteen minutes ago," Agent Kate Beckett replies to the woman, glancing over to the door as Deputy Director Anthony Freedman walks in.

"So, he is communicating directly with you now," Freedman muses aloud, as other agents pile into Kate's smaller office. "We could take this into the conference room, you know –"

"That's okay sir," Kate counters. "I'd prefer to do this here," and he nods his head in understanding. They have found bugs in both their offices and he knows she now sweeps hers religiously each day, as does he. He can't fault her comfort level being greater in her own office, given the circumstances.

Kate glances at Special Agent Jordan Shaw, who has flown in with a few of her own agents. Now that the threat from Scott Dunn has escalated to now include a Deputy Director and a United States Senator as targets, all resources are being called in to stop Dunn's final two outings. The call came from above Deputy Director Freedman.

Including a well-known profiler, who has history and experience with Dunn, into the mix was a no-brainer, and both Jordan and Kate smile at their good fortune that an official case now brings them together. So much for the necessity of their late night, clandestine FaceTime talks.

"Let's see the video, Kate," Jordan tells her, glancing over and nodding her head to acknowledge the Deputy Director.

"Jordan," he smiles in return.

Kate depresses the PLAY button on the small DVD player, and her screen lights up for the now-growing crowd inside her office.

"_Hello, Nikki,"_ Scott Dunn begins, and it is clear that the serial killer is in a very different frame of mind. _"Well, needless to say, fun and games are over."_

"I agree," Kate mutters under her breath – only Jordan hears her words. "Stop hiding and come out so we can finish this."

Jordan gives her friend a squeeze on the shoulder as they watch Dunn continue to pontificate on screen.

"_You blew up my home, Nikki. I suppose turnabout is only fair play, since I once blew up yours,"_ he smiles, and his chuckle is like ice cubes rattling around a small glass tumbler. _"Anyway, the kid gloves are off, so to speak," _he continues, cracking his knuckles for effect.

"_Tomorrow, we play two riddles, not one,"_ and the gasps in the room can be clearly heard. Deputy Director Freedman shushes everyone so they don't miss anything on the first pass.

"E and R are the only ones left," Kate says softly, while Jordan nods in agreement.

"_Here is your first riddle,"_ Dunn continues on the videotape. _"Bobby worked the night shift at the mill, clocking out at 5:54 every morning until his project was completed."_

Dunn makes a show of glancing down at his fingers, as if observing his fingernails closely. Then suddenly staring back into the camera with his trademark sinister smirk, he continues.

"_And here is your second riddle, Nikki. Their song of honor used to rise, but tomorrow night a new song cries."_

Kate sits back, her mind racing, watching Jordan Shaw's fingers tapping on her desk. She is about to turn the video off when Dunn makes one final closing statement.

"_And remember Nikki – you blew up my home. You're the one who made this personal."_

With that, the screen goes black, and a cacophony of noise rises quickly in Kate Beckett's office, with agents beginning to spout theories and ideas about the location of the next two targets. They know it is tomorrow, and at least one of them is tomorrow night. From her conversation with Castle, Jordan Shaw already has the location of the final one tomorrow night. The Old RFK Stadium where a teenage concert will be playing tomorrow night. Whether by RFK or Redskins, the NFL team that called RFK home for so many years, both play with the letter 'R". Somehow she needs to get this information out, without giving Castle away. Knowing riddles are not her strong suit, this is easier said than done.

The first riddle, seems a little harder. Fortunately for the team, there are some history buffs in the room with them.

"The first one is the Washington Monument," Agent Candace Evans smiles at the team, while high-fiving Agent Ben Walsh. Kate raises an eyebrow, knowing this is the second time the team has listened to a riddle and come up with the well-known monument.

"Why do you say the monument," Kate asks, as she wonders where the letter 'E' fits in to their selection.

"Bobby Mills is Robert Mills," Evans, the history buff, answers quickly, "the original architect for the monument. He clocks out at 5:54 every morning in the riddle, and the monument is just a few inches over 554 feet high."

"Seven and a half inches," Agent Walsh adds with a smile, as he and Evans continue to play their typical one-upmanship game with each other. "Based upon the shape and structure of the old Egyptian obelisks." Kate smiles, now fitting the 'E' into the equation.

"No idea on the second one," Evans adds quickly. "Not yet. But we will figure it out."

Kate smiles, satisfied that the first one is indeed the monument. The banter between Evans and Walsh reminds her of the familiar banter between two other partners she left behind in New York. Quickly pushing those thoughts out of her mind, she begins to wonder aloud to the team at large.

"If the monument is his next target," she comments, "and I believe you are both correct in your conclusions, then he is in full terrorist mode."

"He doesn't have a history of damaging landmarks," Jordan muses aloud. "At least not until this string of targets. Taking down part of the Watergate Hotel was new," she continues.

"As was potentially taking out the Yacht Club," Kate adds.

"We can't allow anything to happen to the monument," Agent Mark Hill comments. "This is a national treasure we are talking about here."

"If the monument is his target," Kate suddenly replies, now standing, "then history tells us whatever he is going to do there tomorrow, he has already done."

"What do you mean, Agent Beckett?" the Deputy Director asks.

"The Watergate Hotel, the Yacht Club . . . by the time we got the video with his riddles, he had already done his damage."

"That's right," Agent Evans agrees. "If the monument is the target, then we should be looking at it now, not to fortify or protect it, but to be looking for whatever he has already done to it."

"Agree," Freedman tells the team. "So . . . options, ideas."

"The elevator," Agent Walsh chimes in. "Hundreds of visitors a day, I would guess. Maybe more. They go to the top for views of the city."

"Well, any explosion there might level the thing," Candace Evans tells the group. "This is a structure that has withstood an earthquake. We can't allow this to happen."

"The second target sounds like a music hall, or somewhere concerts are given," Hill comments.

"The JFK Center?" Freedman wonders aloud.

"Can't be," Kate interrupts. "The final target lines up with the letter 'R' from the acrostic he has given us. I can't fit an 'R' with that venue."

There is silence for a moment, when Jordan smiles, seeing an opportunity to insert the real answer, again given to her by Castle days before.

"Wrong brother," Jordan says, pretending to think out loud. "We stood at John Kennedy's grave at the cemetery while he was making a move on the trains," she reminds the team. "This one sounds more like Robert – as in RFK Stadium."

Kate glances over at her friend, wondering where such a reach came from. Jordan senses the question and begins her explanation.

"The riddle mentions a song of honor," she begins. "Of course I am more of a Bears fan, but any longtime NFL fan will remember –"

"Hail to the Redskins," Agent Hill mutters aloud, impressed with the woman's sports knowledge of the Washington team. Jordan shrugs her shoulders with a smile.

"What can I say? I like football," she offers the team.

"An old song of honor, now replaced with new songs . . . that cry?" Freedman wonders.

"Or screams" Hill continues. "The Miley Cyrus concert tomorrow night at the old RFK Stadium," he realizes.

"Spoken like a man with a teenage daughter," Candace Evans chuckles.

"Two of them, as you well know, Evans," he replies, without laughter. For him, this is no laughing matter. Visions of his two girls being killed in some serial nightmare run through his mind, and he knows that had he not been a part of this conversation, that nightmare likely could have been a reality in another day and a half.

The team congratulates itself, while beginning to consider tactics and options. Kate Beckett, however, is quiet, and her silence draws the attention of her friend and colleague from Chicago.

"Problem?" Jordan asks her.

"Too easy," Kate tells her. "We just figured these out in minutes, and this is his final act? Too easy."

"Well, Kate, sometimes –"

"And it's not personal," Kate continues, interrupting her friend. "He said I made it personal, by blowing up his boat. That insinuates that he is going to make this last one personal as well. Personal to me. Neither of these are . . ."

_**Wednesday, July 31**__**th**__**, Across the street from the Federal Building in Washington, D.C, at 11:52 a.m.**_

"Smart girl," Elena Markov thinks to herself, as she listens in on the strategy session across the street. She is beginning to admire this Agent Kate Beckett, who has become a thorn in the side of the Senator. The Russian, too, has picked up on Scott Dunn's statement about making it personal. More, the Russian knows Dunn well – far better than anyone in the room across the street. She knows what personal means to him. She has heard Kate mention an acrostic, and has heard Kate mention the last letter will be the letter 'R'.

"Think it out," she says aloud, almost trying to encourage the woman across the street to put the pieces together. "He is not after a crowd of unknown teenagers. He is after you. Nikki Heat. Who does Nikki Heat care for? How does he make it personal to your fictional alter-ego," she says aloud. She takes a sip from her glass of iced water, becoming more intrigued with each passing moment with this . . . situation, and the woman at the center of it.

_**Wednesday, July 31**__**th**__**, Minutes later, back across the street in the Federal Building at 11:58 a.m.**_

"Oh God, Jordan," Kate whispers, her face almost ashen white, her eyes widening.

"What is it?" Jordan asks her. Jordan remains convinced that the target is – as Castle determined – the old stadium. Everyone in the room is in agreement. Yet Kate is not only not convinced, she is downright scared right now.

"He's after me," Kate realizes out loud. "Me. Not the real version of me. The Nikki Heat version. He wants to hurt Nikki Heat. And the way to hurt Nikki –"

"Oh, Kate," Jordan interrupts, her hand over her mouth, her mind also racing now.

"Rook," Kate replies, the single word dropping from her lips. "He's going after Jameson Rook. He's going after Castle. He's making me choose."

_**Wednesday, July 31**__**th**__**, Across the street from the Federal Building in Washington, D.C, at noon**_

"Good girl," Elena Markov says aloud, causing a confused look to appear on the waiter's face who has just brought her sandwich to the table.

"Excuse me?" the young man says, wondering how this woman would confuse him for a girl. Seeing the misunderstanding, Elena laughs aloud, holding her hand up to the young man.

"My apologies, I am speaking with someone on my phone," she lies, pointing to the listening device in her ear, knowing he will mistake it for a Bluetooth device. He smiles in return, and resists the urge to flirt with the exotic beauty and heads back to the kitchen. A good move for him.

Thinking about the ex-detective Kate Beckett, Elena once again finds herself questioning her allegiance to Senator Bracken. He is cleaning up loose ends. It is a smart move on his part. And has asked for her assistance. Normally not squeamish about such things, Elena senses things are different this time. Sure, Scott Dunn and Jerry Tyson are evil people, and she has no qualms about eliminating such men. She has done this many times before.

But Anthony Freedman? Although he is not on her 'list', she is aware that he is on the Senator's list. She sees no reason to end the life of a good and loyal man, who simply did was he was told. She considers Richard Castle, who the Senator wants her to keep an eye on. Another good man, seemingly a decent man, whose only crime has been to cross paths with the dragon, as he likes to be called – among other things.

And then there is Kate Beckett, a woman who Elena is, unknowingly, beginning to share a certain affinity with. A professional woman, like herself. A beautiful woman, life herself. Evidently a smart woman, again like herself. And a woman whose mother was murdered – and the man responsible for this murder is none other than William Bracken. And now he looks to take out the daughter as well.

Yes, for the first time since their professional relationship began, Elena Markov is seriously questioning the future longevity of her relationship with the Senator, and with every passing day, she becomes less enchanted with the man and his games.

Shaking those thoughts aside, she pulls out her phone and accesses the airline, making a reservation. She is headed to New York. This afternoon, after she finishes this delicious sandwich. Knowing Dunn, and she knows the serial killer all too well, he is probably either on his way to New York, or already there, laying down his plan, laying down his trap for a man he refers to as Jameson Rook.

"This makes things interesting," she says aloud, taking a final bite from her sandwich before reaching into her purse and pulling out a twenty dollar bill. It will make the attractive young waiter happy, she knows, while also knowing he was interested in so much more than a large tip. Dropping the bill on the table, she gathers her belongings and walks out the door and down the street to the parking lot, and gets into her rental. A quick packing job, and she will be at Reagan, ready to fly to New York.

"_I've always wanted to meet Richard Castle," _she thinks to herself, allowing a smile to cross her face.

**A/N:** Just a few more chapters this week before I head off with family for a bit of summer fun. I hope everyone is enjoying theirs.


	14. Chapter 14

**Hunt the Hunter: Chapter 14**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

_**Wednesday Night, July 31**__**th**__**, on a flight from Washington D.C. to New York LaGuardia, at 7:05pm.**_

Elena Markov sits back, relaxing for the short flight to New York. The overly attentive flight attendant is amusing, what with the numerous refills for warm nuts and ice water he brings her every five minutes. In his defense, here in first class, it's Elena and two other passengers. That's it. Quite odd, she thinks, that the first class cabin is this empty. No matter, this is giving her time to think – to strategize – to plan.

She knows Scott Dunn well, and of all of Bracken's toys, Dunn has always been the most unpredictable. Tyson is a joke. She will take him out tonight at his place. He'll probably have his blonde bimbo pseudo doctor with him. She's as nuts as he is.

"_I wonder what causes people to lose touch with reality so completely,"_ she thinks to herself. The thought causes her to think about herself. Given her background, she's not the classic assassin in the Hollywood kind of way. She's no street orphan taken in by some meticulous contractor who trained her to be a killer. She didn't grow up as a prostitute, finding her own way out of the business and hooking up with a skilled killer. No, she had a fairly normal upbringing just outside of Moscow, when her parents moved to the United States, planted as sleepers just before the fall of the wall. She was ten years old at the time, and the move stateside was both frightening and enlightening. Fortunately, she had a rudimentary understanding of the English language from her parents already, who had interacted with Americans constantly during the Cold War.

Upon coming to the D.C. area, her parents had placed her into a school to learn the English language for one year, and then it was on to private school, where she excelled in studying history and world governments. During those early years, she continued to learn martial arts from her mother – as she had back home in the old Soviet Union.

Born and raised in Hong Kong, young Jai Linh had met Kazimer Markov during one of his numerous 'missions' to the province. They had married and Kazimer had met resistance when he brought her home to Moscow. Their early years had been difficult, which only served to forge a harder, deeper love between the two. The birth of young Elena had been a joyous moment for the couple, and they raised her with an equal visibility of and appreciation for both cultures. Knowing the trials the young girl would likely grow up experiencing because of her heritage, her mother ensured young Elena grew up knowing the physical, spiritual and emotional side of the martial arts. Her father gave her the love for the intellectual side of the world.

And weapons.

She smiles, thinking about Mother and Father, as she refers to them, recalling their reaction to her first kill. Paula Dover, a young girl at the high school prep school fell victim to two of the rich male preppies at the institution. The loss of her virginity occurred – by force – at the hands of Robbie Hansen and Jeremy Blackman, the two young predators, in the woods behind the campus. Elena had heard of rape before, of course. She wasn't some naïve flower. But young Paula had befriended a somewhat shy Elena just two years earlier when Elena first enrolled at the school. The two had become the best of friends. When the campus leadership reacted to the rape accusation by Paula with the not surprising look-the-other-way attitude consistent with the late 1990's, followed by Paula's shamed departure from the school – well, Elena had bided her time. Late in her junior year, Elena had used her mother's exotic looks and her father's clandestine skills to lure the two boys back into the woods one evening, with a promise of a sexual encounter unlike any they had ever experienced. Deeper into the woods, she had run, allowing the boys to chase her, making a game of it, never letting them get too close until they were a good mile into the forest to the tree. It was too bad for the boys that they were so gung ho for a quick lay that neither noticed the small yellow ribbon attached to the trunk of a tree every twenty or thirty yards. Elena had followed the trail she had previously scoped and laid out right to this spot. This tree.

With the shovel.

Finally allowing the boys to catch up, she stopped at the tree, while they were still twenty yards behind, and turned to them, unbuttoning her blouse. The smiling young men approached her with careless abandon. Neither saw the blade flashing through the air, severing their jugulars, and doing slightly more damage to other parts of the body until Elena felt justice had been served. She sat down next to the dying boys, and gave them a simple explanation.

"For Paula," she had said simply, and the realization in their eyes told her that they met their maker knowing full well the reason for their premature departure.

She had dragged each boy to the large, six foot deep grave she had dug days earlier. Dropping each into the large hole, she stripped off her clothes and buried them with the two former rapists. Then she retrieved the shovel and filled the hole. She then walked calmly back to the campus, nude, stopping at the small lake just outside the trees to enter the water, and wash any blood from her. Walking back into the forest to the second tree with a ribbon, she climbed it quickly and retrieved a small pack with a second set of clothes. Minutes later, she walked out into the darkness of the campus, looking nothing like the ruthless killer she had become.

At Christmas vacation, she shared the story with her parents – never one to hide anything from them. And as she expected, she had received nothing but support from her parents, from grudging admiration from her mother, to outright acceptance and appreciation from her father, who then explained to her that he himself was a product of his own mother being taken by force by a Russian soldier.

In the irony of ironies, she had to live her senior year at the school seeing a memorial plaque to the two missing boys, and living in the dorm that became named after them; Hansen-Blackman Hall.

"Life does have its ironies," she says aloud now, in the plane, recalling her earlier years. She hears the pilot giving instructions to the flight attendants for the approaching descent, and snaps her mind completely to the present. First step, a trip to Richard Castle's apartment. She believes that the best approach is always a direct approach, consistent with an assassin who likes to do her work in close. She will approach him, warn him, and let the chips fall where they may. Then she will take out her two targets, and subsequently decide what to do about a certain Senator who seems to be losing his way.

_**Wednesday Night, July 31**__**th**__**, on the train from Washington D.C. to New York LaGuardia, at 7:15pm.**_

With a seat all to herself here in the quiet car of the train heading to the city, Kate Beckett has had time to formulate her plan for taking down Scott Dunn before he can attack Richard Castle. There are multiple challenges facing her at the moment, not the least of which is warning Castle. She knows he has no time or use for her right now. Somehow, she – and he – are going to have to get past that early in their conversation. Knowing Dunn, no one in Castle's family is safe. Not Martha. Not Alexis. Dunn is ruthless, and more than that, he's angry. She's made it personal, which means he is a bit of a wild card now. Less predictable, and therefore more dangerous.

She glances down at the small glass of rum and coke, not often her drink, but tonight she has gone for harder stuff than normal. Perhaps for a shot of the courage she knows she lacks. Regardless, fate it seems, has intervened, and the long separation from Richard Castle that began before the summer now has a small crack, a small window of an opening. She intends to take it.

She opted for the train, because Kate Beckett is quite confused right now. The relative solitude of the train – as opposed to the noisiness of a plane, and the nosiness of fellow passengers – has given her time to think, and reflect.

Her mind replays the entire sordid events from the Yacht Club again, and again, and again. The look on Bracken's face when he realized he had suddenly become the hunted. The look on Freedman's face when he got the phone call from Bracken she promised him was coming. But worse, worse than all of this is the look on Kramer's face when he realized that she wasn't deactivating the explosive device they had found. The look on his face when he realized she was opting for a more terroristic approach herself to dealing with Scott Dunn. And the complete lack of answers she had for Deputy Director Freedman this morning after their meeting, who wanted to know why she simply watched Scott Dunn place the explosive device under the table, but didn't stop him. Why she videotaped the killer in the act, but didn't move to arrest him at that moment.

Whether it is being without Castle, or just being alone, or being used by Eric Vaughn, or being a puppet for William Bracken . . . or maybe she is just sick and tired of having to play games with Scott Dunn again – regardless of the reason, Kate knows that she has had enough. She has had enough of playing by everyone else's rules. She is tired of being a marionette for the rich, powerful and dangerous. And she is finding that she is capable of thinking – and doing – some things that she never would have imagined.

Such as placing a bomb on a boat.

Such as lying to her colleagues.

Such as sitting here, knowing she should call a certain writer – right at this moment - and warn him what is coming, warn him _who_ is coming – but being unable to do so.

She finds herself, as she sips from her glass, wondering if she is still a cop, still a federal agent, still worthy of being a duly-appointed representative of the law . . . or if she has become something else . . . someone else.

She hears the ping from her phone which brings her back to the present, and frowns knowing that it is Jordan, and also knowing exactly what the woman wants. Glancing down, her suspicions are quickly confirmed.

_JORDAN: You haven't called him yet, have you . . ._

"Dammit, Jordan," she smiles, knowing that her friend is only trying to help, and also knowing that the FBI profiler is well aware of Kate's tendency to procrastinate. She begins typing her response.

_KATE: Not yet. Surprised?_

No, Jordan will not be surprised. She won't be pleased either, as both women know that time is of the essence. Before she can take another thought, Shaw's response is staring at her, spurring her into action.

_JORDAN: You DO know that chances are good that Dunn is there already?_

Yeah, she knows she cannot wait any longer. She's been on this train long enough, and they are less that fifteen minutes out from the city. And Jordan is right – for all they know, Scott Dunn could be tracking Castle right at this moment. She would never forgive herself . . .

She closes Jordan's message, and pulls up Richard Castle's contact information, her heart racing and hands suddenly dampening.

"Here goes everything," she thinks to herself, pressing the SEND button.

_**Wednesday Night, July 31**__**th**__**, at Finn Rourke's Irish Pub, at 7:20pm.**_

Scott Dunn walks into the dimly lit bar, his eyes searching and adjusting simultaneously. The man is already in kill mode, no more games, no more funny stuff. Just get in, kill Rook, devastate Nikki and get out. A nice beach in Southeast Asia sounds perfect. Europe is out. Europe is that bitch Elena's hunting grounds, and he knows that Bracken has put a hit out on him. Or if he hasn't already, he soon will. Dunn knows, crazy or not, that he is no match for Bracken's killing machine.

He also know that the Senator is getting sloppy. As soon as Bracken had informed him of the real reason behind deploying Dunn in D.C., namely to start to eliminate loose ends under the guise of a terror threat to the nation's capital, Dunn realized that he himself was likely one of those loose ends. That the Senator would not think that Dunn would realize this . . . well, again, the Senator is getting sloppy.

So Dunn had gone on the offensive, trying to take the Senator out along with Freedman at the Yacht Club. But Nikki had intervened. He has to give her credit, grudgingly. Not only did Nikki destroy his boat – he liked that boat – but her little display has also kept Bracken alive. Grudging admiration or not, now she is becoming more than a thorn. Now she's getting in the way.

Once landed, Dunn had gone straight to Richard Castle's loft, which was easy enough to find. He hasn't moved in the years since Dunn had first starting playing games with Nikki. But this time, once at Castle's loft, there was no cute subterfuge. No disguises. No imaginative games. He wants this to be bold, he wants this to be audacious. Let him open the door, shoot him, leave. Nothing difficult.

However, he had walked into the building on the first floor, and was greeted by the security guard.

"Can I help you?" Mike Monroe had asked, his tone friendly.

"Looking for Ricky," Dunn had said cheerily, as if he and Castle were old friends.

"Not here," the large black man had told him. "You just missed him by maybe thirty minutes."

"Know where he went?" Dunn asks. "I'm guessing he's out with the detective . . ."

He lets the sentence hang out there, giving the impression of an old friend who doesn't know about Castle and Beckett's split.

"No, but he's spending a lot of time down at the Irish Pub," Monroe remarks.

"Ricky Castle at Finn's place?" Dunn remarks with genuine surprise.

"Yeah, surprise, surprise," Monroe agrees. "Who should I say came calling for him?"

Dunn hesitates for a moment before making up his mind.

"_No games,"_ he reminds himself.

"Tell him Scotty came by. Tell him I'll be back if I miss him tonight."

It's innocent enough, but a broad, shot-across-the-bow warning. He wants Castle running scared. He doesn't have Nikki watching his back. This should be an in-and-out play.

So that's how Scott Dunn wound up here tonight, at the Irish Pub. He doesn't see Castle anywhere at first glance. No matter, if he is here often, nothing says he had to come straight here from his place. The night is still early. And the bartender behind the counter is cute. He walks to the bar, and takes a seat at the counter.

Eliza Rourke sees him approaching, and something about the man sets off a sixth sense somewhere deep inside the young woman. Warily – but still friendly – she approaches the stranger.

"What can I get for you?" she asks, her smile bright and welcoming.

"Indeed, that's the question," Dunn smiles. Eliza holds her smile. She knows how to deal with these flirty types. But her guard is up with this one.

"Let's start with a drink, shall we, before getting shot down," she says, her smile still intact.

Dunn keeps his smile in place as well, sizing the woman up.

"How about Jack and coke," he says affably, just a little louder than necessary.

"Coming up," she tells him, moving away to grab the bottle behind her on the wall counter.

Meanwhile, Richard Castle is indeed in the bar, but in the men's room at this time. Castle walks out just in time to see Dunn sit down. He's a good twenty feet away, yeah, but he will never forget that face. His heart all but skips a beat.

"_What's he doing here? He's in D.C. right? Playing his stupid games with Kate."_

The thoughts fly through his head, with no good answers in sight. Without thinking, he almost asks for a back way out, but stops himself. He walks toward the table where Finn Rourke sits, engaged in raucous laughter with a table of friends. Suddenly he hesitates. So far, the protocol has been clear. Castle comes into the bar and sits at the counter. Finn comes to him when he is good and ready. Shaking his head, he goes to the opposite end of the bar, out of sight from Scott Dunn. Fortunately Eliza sees him as he shakes his head at her. Grabbing a coaster, he takes a pen from inside his coat pocket and writes a note on the coaster. He places it on the counter, tapping it. She doesn't acknowledge anything, but he knows she has seen it. Just in case, he gives the warning to the patron sitting next to him.

"It's very important for the safety of everyone here that Eliza gets this note – and I mean right now."

With that, he finds his way out through the kitchen, out the back door. Breaking protocol, for sure, but staying alive right now is the top priority. He jogs through the alley and across the street to the diner. Grabbing a table at the window, he sits and gives himself a good view of the front entrance of Finn's place. He places an order and waits. And watches.

Meanwhile, back at the Irish Pub, Eliza picks up the coaster. Her hands begin to shake as she reads his note. Fortunately, the young woman has had enough experience with mobsters and other characters not to look Dunn's way.

_Serial killer at your counter. Scott Dunn. Extremely dangerous. Tell Finn!_

Eliza takes a deep breath, placing the coaster in her pocket, and then takes the Jack and Coke over to Scott Dunn, who gives her a sweet smile. She returns the smile, and goes down the counter, asking for refills. In a minute, she will take the coaster to her father.

Across the street, Castle keeps his eyes trained on the door. He needs to see where the man will be going, and if possible, follow him. The ringing from his phone startles him – and the ring tone is what gets him. He knows that ring tone. Only one person has it in his phone.

"_I don't have time for this,"_ he tells himself, depressing IGNORE, and peeling his eyes on the bar once again. But seconds later, the phone rings again. He sucks in his breath, closing his eyes for just a second, then opening them, answering her call.

"Hello," he answers.

"Castle," she says, and just her voice sets him on edge. He's somehow both excited and disappointed to hear her voice again.

"Beckett," he manages. Nothing more than that.

"I know you don't want to hear from me right now," she begins. She's not going to give him a chance to re-think answering. "But this is very important."

"_I'll bet it is,"_ he thinks to himself, remembering the last time she called with something important. That ended in a short 'woe is me, my job sucks' diatribe that Castle had cut short, ending the call.

"I can't talk right now, Beckett," he tells her, but she interrupts quickly.

"Castle. It's Scott Dunn. He's in New York."

"I know that," he says before he can think about what he is saying. "I just saw him in the bar I was at. I'm across the street waiting for him to come out."

"Castle, you don't understand. He's there for you, Rick," she tells him, her voice rich with emotion now, and for a couple of seconds there is silence between the two ex-lovers. "You are his last target."

Suddenly, he puts it together. The last letter in the acrostic. R. Rick. Rook.

"_How could I be so stupid?"_ he thinks to himself, as his eyes return to the front door of the Irish Pub.


	15. Chapter 15

**Hunt the Hunter: Chapter 15**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

_**Still Wednesday Night, July 31**__**th**__**, at a Diner across the street from the Irish Pub, at 7:40pm.**_

Richard Castle considers his options. He could call the police. On the surface, that makes the most sense. Let the police come, arrest a known criminal and terrorist. Case closed, high-fives, everyone goes home happy.

Then again, sending cops into Finn Rourke's bar might not be the smartest move either. The last thing Finn wants – or needs – is a bunch of blues walking into his bar. No, there is no need pissing the old man off. Especially since they seem to slowly be developing something resembling . . . respect . . . a partnership of sorts. Castle's no idiot, he knows this is a use-use, give and take relationship he is establishing with the mobster. The only reason Rourke is helping him is because Rourke believes there will come a time in the future – possibly multiple times – where having Richard Castle as something of a kind of . . . partner . . . will come in handy for the old Irishman.

He can go back in to the bar, and play ignorant. But Kate Beckett has told him to sit tight, not to do anything. She is five minutes out from Penn Station and can be here inside half an hour, according to her estimate before she hung up. The problem with this option is that he is so done with listening to and obeying Kate Beckett.

"Hell, let's be realistic," he thinks out loud. "I didn't follow her instructions half the time when we were together, when they were working as partners," he chuckles, as he recalls the numerous times she literally had to handcuff him inside a police car to keep him from following her and the boys into danger.

"Listen to me, I'm talking as if narrating a story," he smiles. He suddenly realizes that Kate Beckett is on her way to see him, and he isn't nervous, he isn't anxious, he isn't freaking out. Whether that means he is getting over her or just accepting things as they are doesn't matter. What matters is that he is ready for this – and this realization surprises him.

He keeps his eyes peeled on the Irish Pub, waiting for movement.

_**Still Wednesday Night, July 31**__**th**__**, at LaGuardia Airport, Same time at 7:46pm.**_

Elena Markov places the call as she walks out of the airport terminal at New York LaGuardia toward the helipad, and the waiting helicopter that will whisk her quickly into the city. The phone rings only twice before her party picks up.

"Hello Elena, was it a good flight, I hope?"

"Yes, Vani, very nice," Elena responds. Vani Shenvi is an old acquaintance, and has been a great source of information for Elena for the past eight or nine years. Born in Bangalore, India, the woman is fairly tall at five feet, ten inches, just an inch shorter than Elena. Vani was educated in the United States at Princeton, and is fluent in four languages. Her skill for blending in to her surroundings is considered simply uncanny by Elena. It is a skill that Elena calls upon as often as possible.

"I'm two cars behind her," Vani tells Elena, getting right down to business. She had picked Kate out at Penn Station and began tailing the Federal Agent, as per Elena's request.

"We are traveling north on tenth avenue. Just passed West 37th, she tells the Russian.

"You're in midtown?" Elena asks, looking for confirmation, as she waves her hand in greeting at Wendy Adams, who walks toward her, smiling.

"Yes," Vani replies, quickly adding, "Okay, she's slowing down now . . . left turn. We're in the old Hell's Kitchen area."

"Good," Elena replies herself, "On my way." She clicks off, knowing that Vani will update her with any further movements.

"Midtown, Wendy, quickly," Elena says in greeting, giving the pilot a hug and kiss on each cheek, and receiving the same.

"Gotcha," Wendy smiles. "There is a helipad on West 30th Street. I will have you there inside ten."

"Good enough," Elena says, lowering her head to duck into the chopper. A minute later, they are airborne, heading into the city. Ten minutes later, Elena is walking out of the heliport in Midtown, hailing a cab toward a diner in Hell's Kitchen where – as fate would have it – Vani has texted her that Kate Beckett is now sitting down with Richard Castle.

_**Still Wednesday Night, July 31**__**th**__**, Inside the Irish Pub, three minutes ago at 7:43 p.m.**_

Finn Rourke has given the matter a lot of thought. Five minutes ago his daughter handed him a coaster.

"From Castle," was all she said, as she dropped the coaster onto her father's table, and walked leisurely back to her station behind the bar. Scott Dunn still sits there, oblivious to the developments around him, still thinking he is in charge.

Finn had read the note, and had not reacted. No clenched hands, no outward expression of anger. In fact, only Jackie MacAuley, his longtime friend who sits opposite him at the table notices the very subtle change in his old friend.

"A minute, boys," Jackie tells the others at the table, and immediately all rise up and take their leave from Rourke. Rourke simply nods at his friend, without smiling.

"Know me that well, do you?" he asks, but it's not really a question. Jackie rises as well, and now comes to sit next to Rourke. '

"Whatcha got there?" he asks Finn.

"A message. A warning," Finn says, showing his friend the coaster.

"Where is this guy?" MacAuley asks, making a special note not to glance anywhere at the bar counter.

"Far right end of the counter," Finn tells him.

"Where your writer was sitting?"

"Where my writer was sitting," Finn agrees.

"Coincidence?"

"What do you think," Finn asks, shaking his head. "Depend on coincidence . . ."

". . . and prepare to bury a friend," MacAuley finishes the familiar motto between the two men.

"What's your play?" MacAuley asks, now offering a quick glance and finding Scott Dunn's back turned to him. "This guy – if he _is _the guy – is dangerous."

"So are we," Finn Rourke grouses, now standing up to head toward the counter.

"That we are," Jackie tells him, falling into his normal place two paces back and over the left shoulder of his boss.

_**Still Wednesday Night, July 31**__**th**__**, at the Diner, two minutes ago.**_

Kate Beckett nervously exits the cab on the sidewalk side of the taxi, handing a twenty dollar bill to the cabbie through the window. She glances in the window of the cab, and spots him. His face is non-committal, and given their last conversation before tonight, she will take that as a positive. She quickly enters the diner, giving a quick glance over her shoulder across the street. No activity at the door.

A few seconds later, she is walking the final two steps to the table where Castle sits. He stands quickly, his smile not forced, and entirely welcome. But it lacks something. The sizzle, the sauce that always added that little spice, that little oomph, it seems missing from his eyes tonight. Her heart begins to sink.

"_Have I lost this before we even start?"_ she wonders to herself, now more nervous than before. He seems to sense her nervousness, and – bless him – works to put her at ease.

"Beckett," he begins, his hand outstretched. She takes his hand and he shakes it, staring at the hand all the while, before finally pulling her closer, into a short hug, wrapping his larger frame around her. The very smell of her hair invades his nostrils, putting his senses of full alert. Suddenly, all of the years of wanting and desire are back, front and center, and it's all he can do not to lose it right now. Kate finds herself in a similar position and it's all she can do not to hold tight and lose everything right in this moment. Fortunately for both of them, he doesn't allow it. Just as the memories and the senses begin to overpower him, he reminds himself that these are just mere memories and not current events, because of her doing. They have nothing but memories because of her choices.

It's enough to break the embrace.

"Life is funny, isn't it?" he tells her, more a statement than a question. She looks at him quizzically, so he explains.

"Even when one, or both of us is committed to staying apart, life, or fate, seems to have a plan all its own," he continues.

"Maybe fate's plan is better than our own," she offers, hopefully. "Rick, I know it's not anywhere near sufficient, but I truly am sorry," she begins. He doesn't let her go down that path.

"I think your feelings, my feelings, and anything you or I can say about what happened with us is secondary right now, Beckett," he tells her. "I know that sounds harsh, but the reality is, Scott Dunn is sitting at the counter in that bar over there." He points across the street for emphasis.

"The man who has killed countless others, and who is now after me is across the street from us," he continues. "I'm curious what you think we should do."

"Well," she begins her heart saddened by his abrupt dismissal of her apology, but her head clearly understanding his compartmentalization, and his priorities right now. "We have a couple of options –"

"I'm not sure about what _our_ best options are," he interrupts her, "but _my_ best option is to walk back into the bar."

"That's ridiculous," she counters, "and far too dangerous."

"True on both counts," he offers, "but the other reality is that I have developed somewhat of a relationship with some people over there, and cowardice isn't something they respect. I can't run and hide. I need to get back there."

"Dunn may decide to kill you the minute you step in there," she argues, "and it's not like anyone over there is exactly going to call the police about it." She remembers her discussions with Finn Rourke in that very same bar a few years earlier. "That's not an option, Rick," she says forcefully, placing her hand on his on the table – trying for some level of contact.

"You're not going in alone over there," she continues. He, however, stands abruptly, pulling his hand away – his mind made up.

"It was a mistake for me to run out of there," he tells her. "And I don't think I will be alone in there." At least he hopes he won't be alone, as he walks toward the door, stopping her progress. "I don't think it's a good idea for both of us to go in there," he tells her. "You're still – in their eyes – a cop. You're not exactly welcome. Give me a few minutes, and if I don't come out, or if you see Dunn come out, then follow him, and stop him. He's the priority. Regardless of what happens with me, he can't come near Alexis or Mother. Swear to me, Beckett, you will keep him away from my daughter and my mother."

"I don't like this, Castle," she says, reverting back into the role of hunter again, but he stops her in mid-sentence.

"I don't like it either, trust me," he says, almost smiling. "But these are the cards I've been dealt. I've gotten used to working with bad hands recently," he tells her, and she feels the barb hit its intended target.

"Promise me, Kate," he says, his tone now softer. "My baby girl, my mother . . . "

He leaves the sentence unfinished, watching her closely.

"I promise," she agrees, and he immediately begins to jog out the door, issuing a quick goodbye. "I will be back. That I promise, too."

He walks across the street, fully aware that his every step is being watched by one Kate Beckett, but completely unaware that his movement back into the bar is also being observed with great interest by a certain Russian, who sits in a cab just a few yards down the street from the diner.

He opens the door and quickly walks inside, his eyes immediately gravitating over to the bar counter where . . . Scott Dunn no longer sits. He quickly hustles over to the bar, where a confused Eliza Rourke stares back at him.

"I thought you . . . we thought you had left," she admits, glancing over at an equally surprised Finn Rourke.

"Hmmm . . . seems the old boy found his ball after all," he mutters aloud with grudging admiration. Once again he has underestimated Richard Castle.

"Where is he?" Castle asks Eliza.

"Went to the restroom," she replies, and blinks back a small portion of fear as she sees the fear in his eyes explode, as he takes off for the restroom. He glances over at Finn, waving with his hands and pleading with his eyes for the old man to accompany him with some backup. Finn stands quickly, snapping his fingers. Two very large men are at his side in seconds as he walks toward Castle. Seconds later, they enter the restroom.

It's empty.

"He knows you are on to him!" Castle exclaims, pushing everyone out of the restroom, all but knocking Finn Rourke over the process.

"Get everyone out of here! Get everyone out of here right now!" Castle yells, sprinting toward the front, roughly handling Rourke to get him out of the way. Pushing him forward, toward the door, he reaches over the counter, grabbing Eliza's hands, then arms. Suddenly she is airborne over the counter, being pulled by Castle. Her feet and knees hit the ground hard, pulling a grunt from the young woman. No time for relaxing, Castle drags her to the front door.

Minutes ago outside, Elena Markov cannot keep the look of surprise from her face as she watches Castle walk toward the Irish Pub. She knows – in her gut – that Dunn is already here in the city. Her best chance of finding him, she has decided correctly, is to keep tabs on Kate Beckett. Dunn is here after Richard Castle, and her best chance at finding Castle quickly is to stay close to Kate. She knew the federal agent would find him soon enough. What she didn't anticipate was their reunion to be so brief.

Elena steps out of the cab quickly, and begins to jog across the street toward the bar. From her table in the diner, Kate watches this scene unfold with horror. She doesn't know Elena from Eve, but she knows a tail when she sees it. The woman is clearly following Castle, and judging by the way she runs, this woman is a master of her own body. She realizes the woman is a pro in every sense of the word, and this is no chance encounter.

Within seconds, Kate is up and running, hurrying out of the diner and anxious to get across the street to the door that Castle stepped through minutes ago, in pursuit of the taller, dark-haired woman. Without warning, the door flies open and people start spilling frantically into the streets. Elena stops, as the wave of humanity begins pushing her backward. Her sixth sense now kicks in, knowing that the crowd is running from something happening inside. She wants to pull out her weapon, but right now the running wave has literally picked her up, carrying her roughly ten to fifteen feet back into the street before her feet touch ground again. Cars and taxis are honking their horns at the unexpected intrusion into the streets. Both Kate and Elena separately see Richard Castle all but carrying a young woman out of the bar, and he gets two steps out from the door when the explosion that rocks the Irish Pub launches both of them headlong into the street.

Castle lies motionless on the ground, face down, his ears ringing, his head throbbing, trying to get his bearings. He is barely able to move his head sideways, enough to glance at a screaming Eliza, who lies face down as well, trying desperately – unsuccessfully – to pull herself up to her knees. He sees the cause for her inability to perform such a simple task as her right arm hangs at an impossible angle below the elbow.

There is a cacophony of screaming sounds echoing up and down the streets, as human wailings mix with the honking horns of the cars now stuck in traffic limbo. The people who made it out of the pub first, and cleared the blast are now, heroically, making their way back to the front of the demolished establishment to assist, where Castle, Eliza and a few others lay in awkward positions on the ground. Everyone's focus is on the victims of the bombing. Everyone, that is, except two women.

Elena Markov is on one knee in the middle of the street, in hunt mode now, her eyes scanning for the figure she knows – with certainty – will show himself, to see the fruits of his handiwork. She finds him, walking out from the alley way, gun in hand, his gaze at the front of the door, searching for Richard Castle.

Kate Beckett, somehow instinctively, is not watching Castle, who she sees moving his limbs, thankfully. She is not watching any of the victims, or the mass of traffic now stalled around them. No, she is watching the tall, dark-haired woman, who she immediately recognizes to be in search mode.

"_She's looking for someone,"_ Kate thinks to herself, and allows her eyes to follow the gaze of Elena Markov, where she finally sees Scott Dunn. Almost simultaneously their eyes find one another, and Dunn flashes that sinister smile that Kate has grown to abhor. Suddenly, however, Dunn's smile vanishes, and a look crosses his face that Kate Beckett has never seen with Scott Dunn. Fear. True, unabashed fear.

She follows his gaze and realizes he is eye to eye with the dark-haired woman who now is standing, and smiling at her prey. Without warning, Dunn reaches inside his coat pocket and pulls out a small circular device, tossing it toward the crowd. Seconds later, he is clouded and hidden as the smoke bomb does its job. He begins sprinting from the scene, eager to put as much distance between himself and Elena Markov.

Kate Beckett, however, has seen the device come from his pocket, and as he tossed it into the crowd, she began to sprint backwards, back toward the diner at an angle, trying to get alongside him across the street from him. He doesn't see her movement, as he is focused on the Russian first, and escape second.

Elena's training and instincts have taken over as well, as she, too, began sprinting toward the diner as she watched him toss the device towards her. When she gazes back, she cannot see him through the smoke, but she does see – and hear – Kate Beckett, now on the same, diner-side of the street as her, but Kate is twenty yards ahead of her. And Kate has found her prey.

"Scott Dunn," Kate yells across the street, and her words cause the serial killer to slow and turn back. She raises her weapon to fire, but holds her trigger-finger, as Dunn grabs one of the growing bystanders in the distance who are curious about the explosion and smoke. Using the woman as a shield, he makes his way into the sizable early night crowd. Undeterred, Kate takes off after him, her weapon in hand.

"Federal Agent!" she cries at the top of her lungs, sprinting hard into the crowd, her eyes never leaving the retreating form of Scott Dunn.

Her attack is viewed with an admiring smile from the tall Russian woman who now takes off, quickly reaching full sprint herself, after Agent Kate Beckett.

"Good girl," she thinks again, pleasantly surprised by the woman she chases.

Dunn is running hard now, past 9th Avenue towards eight avenue, with Kate some forty yards behind him, and closing. Elena has slowed, and is easily keeping up with both, intentionally staying some twenty yards behind Kate, curious as to how the ex-detective will handle herself once she catches the man. Suddenly, Dunn has the fortune of running up to a young man on a bicycle, his groceries in a basket.

"Get lost!" Dunn tells him as he knocks him off the bike, and jumps on. Quickly accelerating as he turns north on 8th Avenue, he starts putting distance between himself and Kate Beckett. Elena sees the new development and taps the ear piece in her left ear.

"Do you have him?" she yells, barely breathing hard at all.

"Got him, boss," Wendy Adams tells her. Adams, as instructed, had gone airborne once she had dropped Elena off, staying in the area. She had seen the blast from a few blocks away and had quickly banked back toward the Pub below. She had quickly spotted Elena chasing Beckett, and she immediately realized that Beckett, gun in hand, was not running _from _Elena – no, she was _chasing_ after someone else. A few seconds later, searching ahead of the two women, Wendy had found the fleeing man, and had kept him in her sights. She's flying too low now, she realizes, but as they get onto 8th Avenue, she realizes she will lose him at her normal altitude. So, flying some seventy-five to eighty feet off the ground, and clearly causing a commotion on the streets that they will deal with later, she stays in pursuit of one Scott Dunn.

"Stay on him, keep me apprised," Elena tells her, as she suddenly accelerates, now no longer content to stay behind Kate Beckett, but now needing to catch up to her.

"He's headed north on 8th Avenue," Wendy tells him, then glancing ahead, sees where the man's possible destination is.

"He's five blocks from the park," Wendy tells her, gazing at the massive Central Park that looms in the distance.

"Good," Elena smiles. "Perfect hunting ground," she almost purrs, as she catches Kate Beckett, grabbing her by the shoulder and stepping into the street with her, bringing a cab to an abrupt and screeching halt. Brandishing her own weapon, now, she opens the cab door, and roughly pulls the man out of the back seat.

"You will be grateful later," she tells him as she hurls him to the curbside, and she tosses a stunned Kate Beckett into the back seat, and quickly joins her as she shuts the car door behind them.

"Drive if you want to live," she tells the cabbie, who slams his foot on the accelerator and pulls back into traffic, wondering why it is his life that now is being shot to hell.

"Put your weapon away, Kate," Elena tells her, as she puts her own weapon back in her shoulder holster. "I am not your enemy." Then to the cabbie, she gives instructions. "Step on it, toward Central Park," he tells him, knowing that Dunn is now easily two blocks ahead of them. It will be close.

"Who are you?" Kate replies with indignation, and not even considering putting her gun away, instead pointing her weapon at this intruder. Suddenly, she recognizes Elena as the woman who was following Castle into the Irish Pub. For a minute, a pang of fear hits her, but it quickly dissolves in the raw adrenaline of the moment.

"Show him your federal badge, Kate, so he knows this is official," Elena tells her. Despite her misgivings, she recognizes the truth and wisdom in her words. Reluctantly, she takes out her badge and places it against the window separating the front portion of the cab from the back seat. Turning back to Elena, and glancing forward, searching desperately for Dunn, she explodes.

"Do you know what you have done?" she screams. "That is a serial killer who –"

"Who is firmly in my sights," Elena interrupts her with a smile. Tapping her earpiece again, she calmly asks Wendy for an update.

"Where is he?" she asks.

"You are one block behind him, but he is making good time," Wendy tells her from her spot perched above. "Want me to slow him down?"

"How far now?" Elena asks.

"Two blocks from the park and moving fast," comes the reply.

"Do not let him get into the park on the bike. Put him on foot," Elena tells her, then glances at Kate.

"I am not your enemy, Kate. I am not your friend either. At least not yet. But we have a common enemy. I would suggest we ask questions later."

A year ago – hell, three months ago – such as request from a complete stranger would have been laughable, something Kate Beckett would have never considered. But this is a different Kate Beckett tonight – one stripped of her longtime allies, trying to forge new alliances, seeing betrayal at virtually every turn. Freedman was allied against her. Vaughn was allied against her. Richard Castle barely has words for her. And let's be real . . . _any _of the agents on Freedman's team could be in league with Bracken. No, she can't trust anyone anymore, save Jordan Shaw. But this woman who sits next to her exudes something . . . something else. Something different. She can't put her finger on it, but she knows this woman isn't aligned with the feds or the police – but it is equally clear she isn't working alone, from the conversation she keeps having via her earpiece.

She glances long at Elena Markov, trying to make up her mind, when the woman turns from her, focusing on the voice in her ear.

"Coming up to the park," Wendy tells Elena. "I have to stop him."

Wendy suddenly accelerates downward quickly, toward the approaching bicyclist, and places her blades slightly angled downward. It has the desired effect, both surprising the oncoming killer, as well as pushing him off of the bicycle. Hovering menacingly, she convinces him to continue his retreat on foot. At that same time, a taxi cab behind him comes to a screeching halt, and two women empty out from the back seats simultaneously.

Wendy smiles, lifting the chopper back into the air with a salute to Elena, who returns the motion. Frantically, Dunn unloads two wild, errant shots toward the cab, causing pedestrians to duck and drop for cover, more screams filling the night air. Dunn sprints now across the street into the park, eager to lose himself from these two crazy women.

Easily avoiding his errant shots, Kate and Elena jog toward the entrance of the park, as pedestrians give way to the rapidly approaching women.

"Let's go hunting, ex-detective Kate Beckett," Elena tells her as she pulls out a long, frightening blade from her a sheath at her waist. Kate merely grunts at the impressive weapon, feeling more comfortable with the gun in her hand. Together, the two women accelerate into a sprint into Central Park after a now panicking Scott Dunn.


	16. Chapter 16

**Hunt the Hunter: Chapter 16**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

_**Still Wednesday Night, July 31**__**th**__**, ten minutes ago, outside the now-demolished Irish Pub, at 7:56 p.m.**_

Richard Castle slowly is able to pick himself up from the ground, now on his knees. Scott Dunn is gone, headed away from the scene of carnage he has created. Castle – and everyone else still here – are totally unaware that he had stepped from the alley, and seen the two women who have already chased him into the park.

Gingerly, he is trying to keep Eliza Rourke calm. The woman is in a lot of pain, and he works to keep her from moving, to protect her grotesquely broken arm.

"I'm here, Eliza," he tells her in a soft, soothing voice. "I'm so sorry," he tells her, saddened that he has brought his own battlefield to her world. Right now she is in too much pain to acknowledge anything, but she does allow him to keep her immobilized. Taking his phone from his coat pocket, he is relieved to see it is undamaged.

"Thank God for small favors," he thinks to himself as he dials 911. One ring and he is talking to a 911 emergency response operator. He tells her the address and the situation but is interrupted.

"That emergency has already been called in, and emergency personnel are on the way, sir," the operator tells him. "Are you all right? Is there any information you can give me?"

"Well, there is going to be massive traffic, it will be hard for them to get in," he tells her. "There are a lot of cars stuck with nowhere to go because of the explosion. There is debris and quite a few people down in the street."

Finishing with the emergency operator, Castle takes a minute to glance around. It appears that he and Eliza were the last ones out, thankfully. Finn is safe, having been simultaneously pushed by Castle and pulled by Jackie MacAuley from the building just seconds before the blast. The old man walks to Castle, who is still kneeling beside his daughter.

"Dad," Eliza manages, as Castle continues to keep her still.

"I'm here, baby girl," the old man wheezes, and it immediately strikes Castle that no matter where a man comes from, or what roads he travels, it all stops when one's daughter is in trouble.

"I saw what you did," Finn tells Castle. "I am in your debt, Mr. Castle."

"Castle simply returns the gaze from the old man, and then returns his attention to Rourke's daughter.

"Don't move, Eliza," Castle tells her.

"I'm so sorry, Lizzy," Rourke tells his daughter, now kneeling beside her, the emotion thick in his voice, filled with regret, anger, fear and relief, all boiled into one large melting pot.

"It's not your fault, dad," Eliza replies, tears of pain staining her cheeks and her voice hollow. "I'm just glad he came back when he did."

Try as he did to leave out of the back without being seen, Castle's hasty retreat had not gone unnoticed. The disappointment on both father and daughter's faces was clear. They viewed his sudden departure as a cowardly betrayal. That he came back meant a lot. Finn Rourke knows many men who has lost their bout with bravery while in the crucible, never to find it again. That Richard Castle found his, and so quickly – yeah, that means a lot to a man like Finn Rourke. And his crew.

And his daughter.

It's why he, and his crew, his friends . . . and his daughter . . . it's why all of them are still alive right now.

"I'm sorry about your bar," Castle tells him sheepishly. He hates that he has unknowingly brought his fight to their lives.

"I will build another one, Mr. Castle," Rourke tells him. "Insurance is a wonderful thing."

"Looks like he got away, Finn," Jackie tells his boss and long-time friend as he walks up on the scene.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Castle interrupts, now gazing at the empty table in the diner where – just minutes before, he had previously been sitting, and glancing up and down the streets, not finding a certain detective.

"Won't something like this upset the apple cart, Mr. Rourke," Castle asks, now wondering how such a brazen attack will be viewed by other gangs in the city. "I mean, you can't have anyone in the city taking this as a successful act against you . . ."

"No we can't, can we?" Rourke replies, the edge clear in his voice, causing Castle to shudder involuntarily.

_**Still Wednesday Night, July 31**__**th**__**, same time, in Washington D.C, at the Washington Monument**_

Special Agent Jordan Shaw stands outside the Washington Monument. Night has fallen, and the yellow tape is already up and in place, effectively preventing pedestrian and visitor access for tomorrow. They have decided to close the structure, even though an extensive, five-hour search turned up nothing. Nothing in the elevator, nothing in the shaft points that are accessible. She and the team have been heads down since mid-afternoon. A completely hands-on operation, there has been no supervisor standing back giving orders on this one. Everybody has been involved.

She'd found a few minutes to text Kate Beckett, just to make sure her friend had – in fact – reached Castle. Jordan didn't want to be the one to tell Castle about Dunn going there, and certainly not about Kate on his heels. She senses she's already been fence-walking a very fine line with Castle as it pertains to Kate. No, this is something she needs to do.

The team has now pulled back, convinced there is no threat.

"What does it mean?" Deputy Director Anthony Freedman asks.

"It means he's playing us," Jordan tells him. "Hoping we spend all of our resources here, looking for something that doesn't exist, while he plays his real card – his final card – back in New York."

"Can Beckett take him down by herself?" Freedman asks.

"You didn't call for help for her out of the New York office," Jordan asks in return, surprised.

"She said she has to do this alone," Freedman explains. "Said our people would just get in the way . . . and get themselves killed."

"And you allowed that?" Jordan asks, incredulously. "What were you thinking, Deputy Director?"

Jordan Shaw isn't concerned for Kate. She is concerned about Kate. More and more, Kate is becoming something of a rogue agent, making her own rules. She's heard how Kate allowed Scott Dunn to walk free out of the Capital Yacht Club after witnessing him plant a bomb. Further, she detached the bomb, but didn't disable it, or have it disabled or put away. No, she went and planted the bomb on Dunn's boat. As happy as she knows Freedman is to be alive, she also knows there will be an investigation on both of Kate's actions. That won't bode well for Kate. And Jordan also knows that Kate won't tolerate people second-guessing her – not when it comes to someone like Scott Dunn.

"Well, no matter now," Freedman says, interrupting Jordan's thoughts. "I'm guessing she is there already."

"Yeah, she is," Jordan acknowledges. "She texted me telling me she made it to Penn Station and was headed to meet up with Castle."

"Good," he replies quickly. "At least he should be safe now."

"We can only hope," Jordan muses aloud.

"Does that mean . . . what about me, now?" he asks. "Does this mean I am safe? I mean, Dunn has probably already left D.C."

"I really don't know, Deputy Director," Jordan replies, her gaze firm on the man. "I really don't know."

_**Still Wednesday Night, July 31**__**th**__**, Inside Central Park, at 8:05 p.m.**_

The two women enter central park, both crouched, advancing cautiously, guns drawn. Kate Beckett immediately notices how Elena moves – fluidly, not side to side or up and down. She almost glides, quietly, through the trees and broken branches and leaves. She is . . . she is . . . yeah, the right word is 'hunting'. She's not just barreling in to get shot. She is truly like a cat, in stealth mode, but still moving with good speed.

Kate makes up her mind quickly, knowing she cannot move like that. She will get the woman noticed.

"I'm going to end up giving your position away. I'm trying something else," she whispers, moving more to the side, placing more distance between the two women. If Dunn hears something, it will certainly come from Kate's end. Elena frowns at Kate's movement, but understands.

Above them, Wendy flies with a spot light on the ground, illuminating Scott Dunn as he moves, frantically trying to evade the death-bringing light. It's early so there are still people in the park. People who are potential collateral damage. Potential hostages.

Elena listens as Wendy gives her instructions in her ear.

"Your two o'clock, thirty paces and closing," Wendy tells her.

Dunn glances upward, briefly considering firing on the chopper and taking it down – or at least taking the light out. He risks a shot that misses the light, and then opts to save his bullets. If he runs into Bracken's Queen, he knows he will need every last one of them.

Kate, unknowingly, is on a direct intercept course, as he is twenty paces to her twelve o'clock, straight ahead. Her natural instincts tell her to slow down, and she does so, softening her steps. The move saves her life, as Dunn has stopped retreating now, and has turned to listen, pointing his gun in Kate's general direction, lost in the trees. Now convinced there is no one there, he runs out from the trees, now illuminated by the spotlight once again. He crosses the street quickly, trying to get out of the light, sprinting into the next set of trees. He is breathing hard. He's in shape, but he has just run and biked over twelve blocks in downtown. That's a long way.

He knows adrenaline has kept him going, and he wills himself further, harder. He knows his chances of surviving a face-to-face encounter with Elena are bleak at best. Now he has to worry about Nikki Heat on top of that. But Nikki isn't acting like Nikki – she isn't behaving as he expects. She's not impulsive. She's not reactionary, as he remembers her. There's been no sneaking up on her this time. This time, she's taken the fight back to him, and damn the rules.

Yes, Nikki Heat is unpredictable this time. Unpredictable is not what he needs. For the first time, now, he questions his decision to come after the writer.

Kate realizes that Elena is probably still getting position updates in her ear. She glances up at the chopper, realizing that the chopper is staying close to their target. She hones in on the chopper in front of her, opting for a more direct path. Dunn, now ten paces in front of her, has come across a young teenage couple making out. It is their unfortunate luck to choose this section of this park on this night.

Kate reaches Dunn first, as he grabs the young teenage boy as a hostage. Seeing Kate emerge from the trees, he places his gun along the boy's neck.

"Drop the gun, Dunn," Kate yells, and fights a smirk that threatens to cross her face. Castle would have appreciated the rhyme, she thinks. She needs to get him out of her mind. Thinking about him will get her killed. But was it just over a year ago when thinking about him _saved _her life, as she hung off the edge of a rooftop.

"Not a chance, Nikki," he tells her. "You know the rules. You drop your gun and kick it over to me." He glances around, looking for Elena who does not appear.

"Looks like you're all alone, Nikki," he smiles. "Again."

Behind the trees, some ten feet away, Elena Markov sees the hostage situation. She closes her eyes, and counts to five before giving Wendy new instructions.

"Wendy, kill the lights," she whispers. The lights go out, bathing everyone in darkness. Elena, however, with her eyes closed long enough, now opens her eyes. She isn't fully adjusted, but she is far more ready for the darkness than anyone else here.

"I can't do that, Dunn," Kate tells the killer.

"C'mon, Nikki, you're not playing the game right," he tells her. "And this young man is going to suffer for it."

"Yes, he certainly is," Elena Markov says suddenly, now appearing from the trees to Scott Dunn's right. She pops a round into the side of the young teenager's thigh, and the youngster yelps in pain, and becoming a dead weight, and falls out of the grasp of Dunn.

Dunn is startled just long enough, and Elena shoots his gun from his hand, with a through and through wound to his hand. He falls to the ground screaming, joining the young teenager who is scrambling to his feet, trying to reach his girlfriend.

"Go. Now. I won't ask again," Elena instructs the couple. The teenage boy's girlfriend pulls him to his feet, and helps him lumber away toward the entrance to the park.

Tapping her earpiece, Elena informs Wendy about the boy who needs help. A few seconds later, Wendy is on the ground, landing. A minute later, the young couple are in the air, headed just a few blocks away to Mount Sinai Roosevelt just on the outskirts of the park. In the air, Wendy tells them to forget what they saw.

"You were in the park and ran into a mugger. You did not see the women," Wendy tells them. "If your story changes, we will find you." There is no menace in her voice. Not hint at all. But they get the message.

Meanwhile, Scott Dunn continues to kneel, holding his hand. He glances between the two who women, knowing who the safer option is. His only chance is to speak with Nikki – to put her in the decision-making role.

"Nikki . . . Beckett, you have to arrest me," he tells her.

"Oh, _now_ it's Beckett?" she argues, tired of this man's games.

"C'mon, Beckett, you know you enjoyed this game," Dunn replies.

"Never," she counters. "Not once."

Whatever," he tells her. "You've caught me. I'm done. Arrest me. Bring in the backups. But get me out of here . . . away from her."

"I'm sorry, Scott," Elena interrupts. "That's not going to happen."

"What do you mean?" Kate asks Elena, turning to her, surprised by the Russian's response. Kate already has her cuffs out, ready to take the serial killer into custody.

"I am not a cop, Kate," Elena tells her. "I'm not here on official business. I am simply here to right a wrong."

"You're a vigilante?" Kate asks, the disgust clearly showing on her face.

"Not at all," Elena tells her, finding her gaze. "I detest the term. I act on behalf of others, and sometimes on my own behalf."

"And who do you act for tonight?" Kate wonders aloud, her gaze firm on the woman as well.

"That is not of your concern," Elena replies evenly.

"No!" Scott Dunn cries loudly, interrupting. "It absolutely is your concern, Beckett." Then turning to Elena, he continues.

"Tell her, Elena! Tell her who you work for. Tell her who we both work for!"

His words – 'who we both work for' – are a knife in the chest for Kate Beckett. Her breath catches in her throat. She knows who Dunn has been answering to. But now, the idea that this very dangerous woman works for Bracken as well? It is too much.

"You have got to be kidding," Kate says with exasperation, now quickly pointing her weapon at Elena. Elena – literally – rolls her eyes at the Federal Agent.

"Just a moment, Kate," she tells Beckett, then turns to Dunn.

"For Paula," she says softly, and with one swift and continuous motion, her blade appears and whisks across the neck of a stunned Scott Dunn.

An equally stunned Kate Beckett is both horrified and . . . somehow invigorated by the scene unfolding before her. She has just witnessed an execution, pure and simple. It should absolutely appall her, and yet she feels oddly satisfied. Her response frightens her, again forcing her to question who – or what – she has become.

She gazes down at the increasingly bloody corpse bleeding out at her feet. She will shed no tears for the likes of Scott Dunn. And there are a thousand questions she has right now.

"You work for Bracken," she says. It is not question.

"I accept contracts from many people," Elena replies. "But I _work_ for no one. There is a difference. You would do well to learn this, Kate."

"Why have you not killed me," Kate asks, "if you have accepted a contract from him?"

"Two reasons," Elena replies with a smile. "I am not sure you are ready to hear all of this."

"After tonight," Kate tells her, glancing down now at the lifeless eyes that stare back at her, "I think I deserve whatever 'all of this' means."

"Fair enough," Elena smiles, happy with the development. "Two reasons," she repeats. "First, your Senator didn't ask me to kill you. Quite the contrary, he feels he owes you a debt. I was to make sure to take out Dunn before he could hurt you."

"That makes zero sense . . ." she pauses for a second. "What do I call you?"

"Elena," the Russian replies with a smile. She touches Kate's arm lightly, then grabs it, and begins walking away from the killing field.

"Where are we going?" Kate asks.

"Away," Elena replies. "Wendy will be back shortly."

"I'm going with you?"

"Yes, you are," Elena smiles again.

"That's awfully presumptuous," Kate counters.'

"I know," the Russian replies, and both women continue walking before Kate brings the discussion full circle.

"You said Bracken didn't want me hurt. He and I are enemies. That makes no sense."

"Again, that is why I don't work _for_ these people. They rarely make sense," Elena gives her, now hustling both of them along.

"We can't just leave him there," Kate tells her.

"On the contrary, that is exactly what we can do," Elena responds quickly. "You are no longer a cop, Kate. And after the past two days, I suspect you may not be an agent for much longer either."

Kate considers her words, knowing the exact same thoughts have danced in her own head this very day.

"You said there are two reasons you didn't kill me," Kate mutters now. "What's the second?"

"I didn't want to," Elena admits, risking a glance at Kate as they walk toward the front entrance to the park. "I like you."

"What?"

"You have so much potential, Kate," Elena tells her, now facing her, "and you have done so little with it. You have your entire world imploding around you, yet you continue to swing at ghosts, and ghosts of ghosts."

"I don't understand," Kate offers, genuinely interested.

"This quest of yours – this bent for revenge against William Bracken," Elena begins. "I don't understand it."

"Of course you don't," Kate tells her, emotion rising in her voice. "He didn't kill your mother."

"Who killed your mother, Kate?" Elena asks.

"I think you know the answer to that already," Kate spits out. Elena allows it – for now.

"I'd like to hear you say it," Elena tells her.

"Fine, I'll play along," Kate offers. "Bracken."

"He killed your mother?"

"Yes."

"He stuck the blade in her?" Elena queries.

"Well, no," Kate admits.

"Who then?"

"Dick Coonan."

"And where is Dick Coonan now?"

"He's dead," Kate replies with no emotion. "I killed him."

"When?"

"Two . . . over three years ago, now."

"And still you are not satisfied?" Elena asks.

"No," Kate gives her. One word is more than enough.

"Why not?"

"Because he was just following orders."

"I see," the Russian muses aloud. "Whose orders?"

"Bracken's," Kate replies.

"And Bracken became powerful enough to issue life and death orders exactly how?" Elena asks, her eyes piercing through Kate's.

"You seem to know a lot," Kate tells her.

"Still, I want to hear it from you," Elena says, her tone now much softer. "More, I want _you_ to hear it from you. It began decades ago, with blackmail, did it not, Kate?"

"Yes," the Federal Agent replies, her voice now soft as well.

"And who were the men who allowed a young, fledging assistant district attorney to blackmail them? Who were these mighty men?" Elena asks, and for the first time, Kate senses a bit of disgust in Elena.

"Three officers – Raglan, McCallister, and Montgomery," Kate replies

"Ah . . . Montgomery," Elena says with a knowing look. "He was your boss, yes?

"Yes, he was," Kate answers, her mind racing back to hangar at night now over two years ago.

"And yet he hid his crime from you. His deception ran for years."

"Yes," is the one-word response.

"And where are these men now?"

"All dead," Kate replies.

"All of them?" Elena asks, already knowing the answer.

"Yes."

"Even Montgomery?"

"Yes."

"And you killed Montgomery?" she asks, again already knowing the answer.

"No."

"Who then?"

"Lockwood," Kate replies. "Hal Lockwood."

"And where is Hal Lockwood now?"

"He's dead."

Elena allows a few seconds to pass – it is a strategic pause.

"This is an awful lot of dead people for you to still be on the hunt, ex-detecive."

"You don't understand –"

"I don't have to understand," Elena interrupts, now gazing overhead at the chopper that is returning. She watches a taxi come to a screeching halt in front of them, as they stand outside the park's entrance. Out from the taxi steps Vani Shenvi, who smiles. From the other door, steps Federal Agent Candace Evans, and Kate's heart almost stops.

"Candace?" she asks.

"We don't have much time, Kate," Elena continues. "As I was saying, before my colleagues joined us . . . I don't have to understand. I see a woman in front of me who has lost her way. A woman who has let one terrible moment define her. A woman who has thrown away a career, a lover, a life – all over one event. How many dead will be enough, Kate?"

"When Bracken is dead!" she screams, surprised as the words escape.

"But after that, then what?" Elena continues, pushing. "What of those who fund this man, who put him in power? Will you go after them as well? What if it is his wife, who whispers dark things to him in the night? Will you not go after her as well?"

Kate stands stunned, one part of her mind trying to make sense of what her ears are hearing, while the other part searches for and finds no logical reason for Candace Evans to be here.

"Kate," Elena continues, "had three police officers stood up to him, none of this happens. They have paid the price for cowardice. Is that not enough? How long will you carry this burden? How long with this stone be tied around your neck? Throw it off! See the world as it is, not as it was!"

"This _is_ my world," Kate argues, the venom back in her voice.

"Then your world needs to change," Elena says, so matter-of-factly. "Join mine."

The words are so simple. And they scare Kate Beckett half to death.

"What world is that?" Kate asks, wary of the answer.

"I represent many as a part of a wonderful experiment – one that began almost seventy years ago, at the end of World War II," Elena begins, and Kate notices how the two women from the cab have moved closer to Elena – flanking her.

"It is called Project Valkyrie. It – we – are an army of female warriors. Ex-military, ex-espionage agents, ex-cops, pilots, doctors, lawyers. We have made life and death decisions throughout the latter history of the 20th century, and now into the 21st century. We right wrongs, we prevent wrongs, we avenge wrongs. And it takes a special woman to walk with us."

The chopper piloted by Wendy Adams lands in the street, once again interrupting traffic. Elena begins walking toward the chopper, as Vani Shenvi and Candace Evans both board the chopper through the back door. Once again, she has Kate by the arm, walking slowly, before stopping a few feet away. She lets go of Kate's arm, and takes a step toward the chopper, ready to board herself.

"The key is to have strong women – from all of walks of life – committed to this ideal, to this family. Educated women, holding jobs – some menial, some executive. It is a small family, but larger than you might suspect. Once in, it is a life commitment. You don't quit.

Kate shakes her head, vigorously, unable to accept the story laid out for her. This sounds like something Castle would come up with, and she immediately thinks of him. She needs to tell him it is over, that he is safe. He doesn't have to worry about Alexis, or Martha. But this is . . . this is nuts.

"You're vigilantes," she repeats, "pure and simple."

"Join us Kate," Elena says simply, as she boards the chopper, tossing a card back at Kate. It lands on the ground at Kate's feet, ignored.

"Elena," Kate says with harsh emotion now bubbling forth, "Why in the hell would I join your band of misguided women?

"Because your mother did," Elena tells her. With that, she closes the door, and the chopper quickly rises into the air. Kate watches as it banks out of sight over the park, too stunned to move. Her mind has crashed, stuck on Elena's final words. A full thirty seconds pass after the chopper is out of sight before Kate bends over and picks up the card. It is an off-set white in color, with a single large 'V' in the upper left corner. In the middle of the card is a phone number.

"Mom?" she mutters aloud, the confusion in her mind still struggling with the news.


	17. Chapter 17

**Hunt the Hunter: Chapter 17**

**DISCLAIMER:** None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.

_**Friday Afternoon, August 2**__**nd**__** at a Manhattan Restaurant**_

They both glance down at the same time – somehow – at the near empty plates on the table, as their waiter refreshes their drinks; ice water with orange slices for Kate, and iced lemonade for Castle. It's been a nice time, a nice lunch. They have talked more – and better – than they have talked since . . . well, ever. That talk is now reaching its inevitable climax, that fork in the road that determines futures.

"Did you know I almost gave you're an engagement ring," Castle muses aloud, his hand wandering up and down his glass, almost playing with the perspiration that forms there.

"I . . . I know, I heard," Kate tells him, nervously. Yeah, they are really going to talk about this.

"It would have been an epic mistake, the biggest one I've ever made," he continues, and it startles her. It's not quite what she expected, but then this lunch has been unexpected. He sees the confusion on her face, and moves quickly to explain.

"A ring shouldn't change anything, Kate," he tells her. She can tell he has given this a lot of thought, maybe even practiced this speech. It has all of the marks of a Richard Castle novel, the four E's he had told her about often during the past year when they were together: Eloquent, elegant, emotional and engaging.

"A ring should only reinforce what is already known, what is already agreed upon in our hearts," he continues, his voice soft. This is not a conversation either of them want overheard.

"It's a sign – to you and I, and even society at large – that we have progressed to the point that we now have a covenant with one another. But understand, the covenant comes first. A man gives you a ring because he already feels that covenant is already in place. The ring just makes it official. The ring just tells everyone else what he already knows. We don't suddenly have these new feelings for one another just because a ring gets slipped onto your finger. I don't all of the sudden think you are 'it' for me just because the ring is there. That's backwards. I put the ring there _because_ I think you are 'it' for me. But if I give – or if you receive and accept – a ring without this being the case, eventually it all falls apart, unfortunately. That's what happened with us, Kate. We had no covenant with each other, no commitment. And we fell apart."

She tries to speak, to interrupt. She disagrees, but he holds up his hand, stopping her.

"My turn, remember?" he says softly, no confrontation intended, and she nods her head, allowing his to continue. "I thought we had that commitment, that covenant, and maybe you did also. But we didn't."

He takes another sip of lemonade, and the smile he gives her is pure . . . peace. He's very much at peace with this, she can tell.

"The other thing I realized, Kate, is that I was angry with you for holding back with me, for not bringing me into your decision-making process, for not including me in what you were thinking, because that's what you do with someone when you share a covenant relationship with them," he continues. His words are warm and flowing. There is no anger in them.

"But you and I didn't have that. We had sex – some really great sex – and a lot of excitement. What we had felt good, and was fun. It was far from boring. But there was no covenant. I'm not saying that was your fault. I'm just saying that it wasn't there."

"How do you know?" Kate asks, finally getting a word in.

"Because a covenant is a promise, Kate," he replies quickly. "It is a guarantee, a pledge, a commitment. What did you and I ever promise to each other? What did we commit? What did we pledge to one another? Nothing," he answers his own question. "See, that has to be there. And it doesn't happen because a ring is given. It happens because two people make that decision, sometimes even unknowingly. Then a ring just cements the deal."

For the first time today, she sees the old emotion in his eyes, she hears it in his voice that breaks. The emotion begins to well up – again – for her, as he continues.

"I was ready to give you a ring, Kate, when the deal not only hadn't been cemented, hell, the cement hadn't even been poured," he tells her, his eyes misty but far away. "We hadn't even talked about these things. And then I realized, I never talked about them with Meredith. We married because of a child. Alexis. I never talked about them with Gina. We married for convenience, and companionship. And I never talked about them with you. So this is partly my fault – maybe as much my fault, because I keep making the same mistake with women I care about – again, and again, and now again with you. But it is clear that I was ready for something, a commitment, a pledge, something more than just fun. But I don't know that you were ready. What happened?

"I just felt . . ."

She searches for the right words. So far today, both have taken their time, they haven't just gone off half-cocked, saying things they will regret. She knows she needs to get this right, as well.

"I just felt . . . used isn't the right word. Maybe taken for granted, Castle. I mean – like you said – it was fun. We were fun. But there were times I felt you weren't there. I was talking, but you weren't there. You were into something on television, you were into your video games. I felt ignored. Kind of unappreciated. You had – for years – told me I was extraordinary. But I wasn't feeling extraordinary anymore. I wasn't feeling like you believe that anymore."

He nods, as if this news isn't really news to him. His eyes are sad.

"I'm sorry Kate, for that, I truly am," he gives her. "I never wanted you to feel that way. But sometimes, I just need to wind down. Don't you? Sometimes, I just need to chill, to clear my head, to relax. Not from you, mind you, but just in general.

"Yeah, but video games, Castle?" she argues, remembering a couple of specific instances. She is standing in negligee that she spent a lot of time searching for, just for him. And he never turned his head away from the explosions on the television screen.

"I used to joke that you were a nine year old on a sugar rush," she smiles.

He laughs with her, remembering the same moment she is thinking about in her head. Not his finest moment, no.

"Yeah, video games are my vice, I admit it," he begins, a bit defensively. "And laser tag, and fencing in the living room. And you're right, it is juvenile, I admit that. I also admit that some men watch porn, others go hang out and get drunk at the local bar. Others opt for . . . extracurricular activities outside their relationship. I play video games. Nine years old or not, I'm okay with that."

"It's a different perspective for her, one she hadn't really considered. For sure, he acts like a little boy sometimes. But has he has so eloquently pointed out, we all have our issues – and his could have been so much worse.

"Where do we go from here?" she asks, as she sees the waiter approaching with their check. Elena will be here soon. Kate had waited a day, spent most of yesterday, actually, just staring at the card that the woman had flung at her feet the previous evening. Then last night, she had called the number, and a very pleased Elena Markov had answered the phone.

"Where do we go now?" she repeats. "This can't be it, Rick. It can't just be over."

He holds his hand out, giving his credit card to the waiter without looking at the check. He's a regular here, he trusts what is on the bill.

"Kate, hear what I am about to say," he replies. "If what we had before, if who we were together for that year, if that is the pinnacle of what we could be, if that's _our best_ . . . then yeah, it needs to be over. For both our sakes. We both deserve better. We both deserve someone who will want . . . more. Someone who will want that covenant I spoke about."

"And you don't think that's us?" she asks, not believing where this could be going.

"I don't know," he replies quickly. "The path we were on, we know where that led. Maybe we try something new."

"Start over?" she asks, still searching for where he is going with this.

"Maybe," he agrees. "You came to me after a life and death moment, dripping wet. It was wonderful, it seemed like pure fate, like the universe had moved for us. But with each passing month, the further we got away from that life and death moment – well the further we also got away from what we thought was there that night."

"Well, I'm not anxious to hang off another building," she smiles, trying to inject some levity.

"And I'm saying if that is what it takes for you and I to value one another, to value our relationship, then we don't belong together," he says, with a bit of finality.

"That's a rather stoic, rather pragmatic view of the world," she muses aloud, her gaze never leaving his. "Where did that come from?"

"From two failed marriages, a surprise ending to an almost engagement, and watching a very good friend watch a world she sacrificed greatly for her son fall completely apart," he answers, thinking of Serena Kaye with his last words. "I guess I do have a different view point now. But what about you? You seem different also."

"Picked up on that, eh?"

"Well, I am a private investigator," he says with mock arrogance, which brings soft laughter to both of them.

"What's happening?" he asks her, this time more serious.

"I'm not a cop anymore, Rick," she begins, "and I'm not sure I'm a federal agent anymore after this case." She sees the confusion in his face, and moves to elaborate.

"Dunn brought out something in me that I didn't know was there," she begins. "I'm still trying to wrap my arms around it, but I did a couple of things that a cop, a federal agent, anyone deputized to serve the law would never do."

"Such as?" Castle asks.

"Well, I caught up with Dunn and watched him plant a bomb at the Yacht Club. Videotaped him doing it."

"That's bad?"

"It's bad because I then intentionally let him walk out of there. I had other plans for him."

"Plans other than apprehending him?" Castle asks, very much shocked at what he is hearing.

"Oh yes," she nods. "I took the bomb across the street and planted it on his boat."

Castle simply stares at her, his eyes wide, as if looking at her for the first time. What he has just heard is so . . . so un-Beckett. Where is the by-the-book woman he tagged around for almost six years. He thinks about the words 'tagged around'. That really does describe their relationship in a nutshell.

"I didn't want to apprehend him. I wanted him to suffer, as he has made others suffer. I wanted him dead."

"Kate?"

"I know, Castle," she replies sadly. "I know."

For a moment, Castle just smiles, and she cannot read what he is thinking, or what he finds so amusing. She does not have to wait long.

"Well, if you are going all vigilante on us, I could come up with a few cool names," he offers with a smile.

"Castle!"

"And a costume," he adds, chuckling. "Think about it. I could write your memoirs. The Adventures of the Manhattan Panther."

"Castle!"

They are silent for a moment, both smiling, as the waiter brings back Castle's credit card, and he signs the bill with a flourish. She smiles at his signature, remembering the many signatures on books he has provided to many people. Her included.

"I know there will be an investigation," Kate tells him, returning the conversation back to its more serious tone. "And probably some type of disciplinary action taken against me . . ."

She lets the words hang in the air, and he notices right away.

"Why do I get the feeling you won't be around for that disciplinary action," he wonders aloud.

"Well, I don't see myself in D.C anymore," she replies, and then quickly adds, questioningly, "and I suppose moving back into the loft is out of the question . . ."

"Probably not the best idea right now," he replies just as softly.

"That's what I thought," she answers, again with no anger of even disappointment. It's more of an resignation to their current state.

"Starting over doesn't mean living together, Kate," he tells her. "Especially for us."

"Do you really think we can just start over?" she asks him, her eyes large, pulling him in yet again.

"I don't know, Kate," he answers honestly. "I really don't know. And I doubt you and I even know each other all that well right now."

"You're right about that," she agrees. "Anyway, I'm thinking of going away for a bit."

"Where?"

"Believe it or not, Russia," she smiles, and they both break out into laughter.

"Really?" he asks, still laughing.

"Well, I _am_ fluent in the language, as you know," she smiles, knowing how he loved her slipping into Russian in the bedroom.

"And I remember you know how to dress the part as well," he laughs, remembering a long ago card-game she bailed him out of.

"That was a fun one," she nods and smiles in agreement. One of their earlier cases together where she got to dress up for the part.

"For you, maybe," he counters. "Me, I was scared out of my mind."

She laughs again. "Elena is from Russia. I want to see it –"

"Who is Elena?" he asks.

"You will meet her in a few minutes," she promises. "But I just want to see it, I want to just . . . I don't know . . .

"Become a Phoenix, and rise from the ashes?" he smiles.

"Yeah, I guess something like that," she smiles in return, immediately regretting her decision.

"See, that's your new name. Phoenix," he laughs. "I told you I'd come up with a name."

"I think that's already taken, Castle," she chuckles, slapping his arm playfully.

"Sure it is," he agrees. "By a fictional comic book character. And since there aren't any other real X-men running around New York, I think you'd be safe."

Suddenly, he wiggles his eyebrows wickedly. "Of course, there's always Nikki H-"

"I don't think so, Castle!" she offers with mock menace. They are laughing easily now, as Elena Markov walks up to the table. Castle is immediately struck with her exotic look, and the scarily professional way she carries herself. Kate sees the reaction the woman causes, and for a moment, has to fight a pang of jealousy.

"I assume this is Elena," he muses aloud as the woman sits at the table with them. "Your new partner?" he asks Kate.

"Perhaps," Elena responds for Kate, then turns and addresses her.

"Your unfinished business is . . ."

"Still unfinished," Kate admits, offering a glance at Castle, who immediately picks up that they are referring to him.

Elena shakes her head, disappointed, and then offers the words that will stay with her for weeks as she rebuilds her life.

"You deserve better," Elena says evening, starting at Castle. Her gaze is unrelenting and seconds later, he is forced to look down at his glass, the table, anything except those unwavering eyes.

"And you can be so much better," she adds, now looking directly at Kate. Elena then stands, offering her hand to Castle. He stands and accepts her hand, shaking it first, then smoothly bending and placing a kiss on her knuckles.

"Oh Kate," Elena smiles, glancing at Kate, knowing what the woman has tossed aside, knowing what she wants so desperately to pull back.

Kate stands as well now, and moves toward Castle. He releases Elena's hand, and bends, placing a kiss on Kate's cheek.

"One month, Castle," she tells him. "I'll be back. Will you be here?"

"I love you, Kate," he tells her, completely stunning both women at the table. "But no promises," he continues. "We're both different people in different places now."

Undeterred, she pulls him in for a light kiss on the lips, and licks her lips afterward, clearly reminiscing about past times.

"I remember that," she says softly.

"I remember, too," he admits, and moves to say something else, but is interrupted by Elena.

"Good, you both remember," Elena tells them with little emotion. She does not understand their dynamic in the least. She finds their dance . . . annoying. _"Life is too short for such games,"_ she thinks to herself. It is one of the first lessons she is going to need to teach Kate Beckett in the coming month. The woman has been fixated on her quest for so long that she takes the beautiful guilty pleasures of life for granted. That must change.

Elena moves away from the table, offering Castle a genuine smile. She finds that she truly likes the writer, and can see the attraction for Kate. No matter, she has much to discuss with Kate, much to teach her. And it will start tonight, with a discussion about one William Bracken . . . and why Elena has not only allowed the man to live this long, but why she is aligned with him in the first place.

They walk away, and Castle watches Kate Beckett leave a second time. This time, however, he is in a much better place with this. He takes his phone out, and begins to type a text message, and doesn't see when she turns at the front of the restaurant, for one final look.

_**Epilogue 1: In New York City**_

He sits in the chair nervously, and he doesn't know why. He's at peace with things, he truly is. But deep down, he knows a few things need to be said, and others heard. From what he has heard from Kate, the man has done wonders for her. So a couple of conversations over the next week or so can't hurt.

"So tell me, Mr. Castle," Dr. Burke begins, "why are you here?"

"First of all, thank you for seeing me, and on such short notice," Castle replies. "I know you focus your work and your practice primarily with police officers, so I appreciate this."

"I've always wanted to sit down with you, Mr. Castle," Burke offers, "for obvious reasons," and both men smile.

"It's good that you can smile, given what you have walked through," Burke continues.

"I'm surprised that I am at such peace with this," Rick admits. "But as a writer, I also know that a peace is often short-lived. So I want . . . I don't know that its closure, but I just want to make sure that all the pain and frustration and pain and betrayal and . . . and all . . ."

"All the pain?" Dr. Burke laughs, counting the times Castle has used the word. Castle laughs along with him.

"I just don't want all of that other stuff rearing its head again. I barely dealt with it the first time – I don't know that I can do it again."

"So what do you want to know, Mr. Castle?"

"I want to know why we failed," Castle responds quickly. "I mean, I think I know why, I know what I told Kate, and I believe it. It's just that there is something out there . . . something unfinished. I don't understand why we weren't committed. I don't understand why we weren't on the same page."

"What did you want from Kate?" Burke asks him.

"I wanted her to love me like I loved . . . love . . . like I loved her," he finally manages. "I wanted to know that I was a part of her life, in every way. I wanted her to commit to us, and include me when she makes huge decisions. Just some damn transparency," he finishes, feeling a bit of the old anger rising again.

"And you are right to want those things, Mr. Castle," Burke tells him. "You want to feel important, like you are first in her mind."

"Exactly!" he tells the psychiatrist. "I just wanted to know that I mattered, that I mattered a lot. I guess two divorces will do that to you."

"Again, there is nothing wrong with wanting that, Mr. Castle. And I think you should always feel that you deserve that. It's just a healthy relationship you are looking for."

"Exactly!" Castle repeats again.

"But here's the problem, Mr. Castle," Burke tells him. Yeah, he knew there would be a 'but' in here somewhere.

"What if Kate isn't wired like that?"

The question is simple. It's not a trick question. It's not a puzzle or riddle to be figured out. It's a simple question, one that Castle has never really considered. Fortunately, Dr. Carter Burke doesn't wait for an answer.

"You would think that all of us want that storybook romance, that romance novel whirlwind experience, where love conquers all," Burke begins, his smile intact. "You would think that all of us want that person who puts us first, and that we want that loving, trusting relationship that allows us to put that other person first."

Castle is nodding his head in agreement. So far, so good.

"But the problem, Mr. Castle, is that this assumption is wrong. Not all people are wired that way. Not all people are looking for that romance of a lifetime, that partner found in the novels. Some people, Mr. Castle, chase windmills. Some people, Mr. Castle, chase the summits of mountaintops. Some people, Mr. Castle, chase what is just out of reach. That is where they are happy, that is where they are at their best. Romance – that is a creature comfort that they enjoy. Relationships – those are things that they enjoy. But these are not things that _they need_. What they need, what they prioritize, what means most to them – is the chase."

"You're saying that Kate isn't wired that way . . ."

"I'm saying that you are wired to want – above all else – one thing. And I am asking you to strongly consider that Kate isn't wired as you are. She is wired to want, and value, and chase, something very different. Not some_one_ different. Some_thing_ different."

"That's . . . that's . . ." Castle can't really find the words.

"Kate chases after her mother's murderer because that is how she is wired. Kate chases after that next job because that is how she is wired. Kate is willing to drop things that – on the surface – looks like something she loves, in order to chase that new challenge. But in reality, she is dropping something she is comfortable with."

This shakes Castle. The notion that Kate Beckett may have never really loved him, in the sense that Castle defines love . . . it is a staggering concept. One that he isn't really ready for. Dr. Burke senses this, and pushes forward.

"Should this really surprise a man who – as you admitted – has been divorced twice?" Burke asks. "Can you honestly say that in both cases – or in _either_ case – that your ex-wives loved you in the way that you loved them? Or consider this – can you say that you really loved them in the way that you loved Kate?"

Castle simply nods his head, his gaze strong into the doctor's eyes.

"So what do you do when you love someone who might not be wired to love you in the same way?" Castle asks.

"That, Mr. Castle, is the one question I cannot answer. Only you can answer that question."

_**Epilogue 2: Over the Atlantic Ocean en route to Europe**_

Elena awakes from her short nap feeling Kate's eyes on her. She glances down at the watered-down drink on the fold-out ledge on her chair. She sits at the window in the last row of first class, while Kate sits in the aisle seat. Finally bringing her eyes to meet her traveling partner's, she speaks.

"What's on your mind, Kate?" she asks.

"Bracken," Kate says simply. It's a question Elena has been waiting for. That Kate has waited an entire day is a bit of a surprise.

"What about him?" Elena asks, feigning ignorance.

"You have done jobs for him. You have let him live. You have killed others, but you have let the man who killed my mother stay alive. You say that my mother was a part of your group, your organization – yet you allow her murderer to live. I don't understand."

Elena has allowed Kate to finish, knowing that this has to have been on the woman's mind since finding out her mother was a part of . . . whatever Elena is a part of. And she deserves the truth, although she might not like it.

"_Well, at least at 30,000 feet, she won't be able to go anywhere,"_ Elena smiles to herself before explaining.

"Johanna had already discussed – with the then leadership team - her desire to bring you into the fold," Elena begins, totally stunning Kate in the process. "You were studying at Stanford, studying law. You were an athlete. The perfect candidate."

Elena flags the flight attendant who passes by, requesting a refill. Once the flight attendant leaves, she continues.

"However, when your mother died, when she was killed, we saw the final ingredient planted inside you. Fury. Emotion. An edge. A chip. A focus. And when I say 'we', I do not mean me. I was still a young woman much like yourself. Years later, when I had become of part of the project, I discovered who had killed your mother. Right or wrong, taking Bracken out, and allowing you to find out that your mother's murder was solved and settled . . . well, I knew it would kill the drive and focus that was branded into your life, Kate. Bracken dead would likely derail the plans to bring you into this. Bracken alive would keep you focused, keep you driven."

Kate simply stares at the woman, taking her story in. She senses that this isn't a woman who wastes time with lies. She also realizes that this isn't a woman who fears anything or anyone enough to even bother lying.

"So I allowed Bracken to live, and I allowed his ascent to power. In order to stay close to him, in order to stay within reach, I began to take odds and ends jobs for him, just to get close and stay close. I developed a relationship with him, where I have risen to highly-trusted status with him. All the while, knowing that someday, at the right time, I would take him out . . . or I would position you to take him out."

Kate nods. While not necessarily agreeing with the logic, she certainly understands it. It is absolutely consistent with what she knows of Bracken, and what little she has learned of this woman.

"The results speak for themselves, Kate," Elena tells her, as she breaks their gaze and stares out the window.

"Today he believes I am a trusted ally, one he never suspects. He is in line to ascend to the highest of heights in your country. Imagine, Kate, the fall from such a height. Imagine, Kate, the humiliation, the pain, the frustration that a man like William Bracken will feel during that descent. That is something you and I will witness. That is my promise to you. You will learn that we keep our promises Kate. Much as another promise, made years and years ago by my predecessors to a lawyer on the rise, a fellow Valkyrie, is now finally being fulfilled. Her daughter now steps out of her own shadow, and into her mother's footsteps.

She closes her eyes again, knowing that Kate still watches her, but also knowing – feeling – that Kate is onboard, that her honest answer has been sufficient.

**A/N:** This concludes this story from The Wonder AU. Thanks to all of those reading this AU. As I have said before, to many of you in PMs, this is a very different take on Kate Beckett. My goal here was threefold: First, to offer a different type of explanation for some of Kate's behavior against Castle. That is, she's just a different cat, wired very differently, called to something important – and whether selfishly or not – willing to drop anything and anyone in pursuit of that. I always had a problem with how canon treated Kate. A woman who comes into the police force and immediately falls for and dates her trainer, then dates a detective, then another – all things that should raise eyebrows. I wanted to give her a different reason other than she just needed a guy, or was just selfish. The idea that she is wired differently, that she is searching for something we just don't see, and relationships are just comforts for her during this search – well, it might not be completely flattering, but I think it's an interesting take that can branch into some cool stories.

The second, was to give her a tangible connection to her mother. Her lasting memory of her mother has always been a victim taken away from her. This story gives her a new connection to her mother, gives her something that is real today, not just something that is remembered from almost two decades ago.

And the third is just selfish fan-boy stuff on my part, I admit. I mean, the idea of an all-female espionage organization that has existed since WWII, and that recruits the best and brightest of women across all areas – maybe it's just me, but I find that pretty cool, and am looking forward to where we can take this. As always, open to ideas, so PM me.

Finally, thanks to everyone who has reviewed and PM'd me – I love our discussions, even when we don't agree. I hope everyone has a wonderful and safe summer with family and friends. God bless you all, richly.


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